


frankly, it's a tad exhilarating

by colonellaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Alcohol, References to the Great Gatsby, Slow Burn, implied sex, thanks tenth grade english class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6080499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonellaurens/pseuds/colonellaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's father doesn't believe that his son is gay, and has not for the past four years. What to do to rectify this matter? Get into a relationship with his best friend, of course. </p><p>Well, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Irritating._ That was the one way that John could describe Henry Laurens.

 

Once upon a time, John came out to his dad. As a scared _shitless_ sixteen year old in his second year of high school, this seemed wise. Logically speaking, his dad couldn’t disown him immediately. Seeing as Henry was the senator of South Carolina and was a widely respected man in the conservative community, to disown his own son would slander his own reputation, and to admit that he had done so because his son was gay would portray him as a bad father in the eyes of Republicans. Almost as if Henry had done something wrong in raising John. Both are ridiculous to John, but if not for that, he would not have come out until he could provide himself with a stable income. Or ever.

But, he had told his dad that he was gay. Of course, he hadn’t believed it at the time. Henry Laurens is a stubborn sort of man, you see. He insisted that his son was merely confused about his own sexuality, that he was too young to know, and that once he met the right woman, the thoughts of lying with another man would go away. Even _four_ years after having come out, John’s dad had _still_ stuck to that stubborn belief.

John was accepted into Columbia University, and practically _jumped_ at the chance to leave the south. There, he had met a poor genius on a scholarship, an aspiring fashion designer, and a Frenchman.

The genius, Alexander Hamilton, was his roommate. Alexander had known of the Laurens family beforehand, and was relieved to find out that John Laurens wasn’t a ~~dick~~ Republican like his father.

During the first semester of his second year of college, John received a call from his dad, which was nothing unusual, at first, until, well…

“ _Do you still think you’re gay, son?_ ”

John paused. Was this even a real question? Of course he still thought that. “Uh, yes, I still _know_ that I’m gay, dad.” When the only response that came from his dad was a short _Hm_ , John began to feel his blood boil.

What he was about to say next was risky, since it wasn’t exactly _true_ , but he figured that it was going to happen sooner or later, and better sooner than later, right?

Taking a breath, he said, “ _In fact_ , dad, I actually happen to have a boyfriend.”

This caught the attention of Alexander, who had been playing a game on his phone across the room. They made eye contact for a brief moment, and it seemed that Alex was just as shocked as John’s father.

“You…have a _boy_ friend.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes.” Why did John feel like he was going to deeply regret this later?

“Hm,” Henry grunted through the phone. “What’s his name?”

 _Shit_. John wasn’t planning on this.

“His name? Uh…” His eyes landed on Alexander for a moment. “It’s…Alex.” John cleared his throat, and said a bit more confidently, “His name is Alexander Hamilton.”

Alex, across the room, choked on his coffee.

“Your _roommate_?”

“Uh, yup, that’s him.”

There was silence on the other line for a moment, and John thought for a brief moment that Henry had put the phone down.

“All right.” Oh no. John _knew_ that tone. “Bring him over when you come down for Christmas. I’ll pay for his plane ticket.”

“Dad—” he began to protest.

“We’ll talk then, son.” His dad hung up.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Uh, John?” Alex’s voice came from behind the couch that John was currently seated on. “Did you just tell your dad that we’re _dating_?”

“I…yeah.”

“But we’re not dating.”

“We’re not.”

There was a pause as Alex processed this. John looked up at him and, _oh no_ , he was smiling.

“Your dad’s still a homophobic piece of shit who thinks that being gay is a choice that can be easily changed, right?”

“Yes?” John had a feeling he knew where this was going.

“This is _perfect!_  I mean, think about it. He still thinks you’re pretending to be gay just to oppose him, right? Having me, your ‘boyfriend’,” Alex made air quotes with his fingers here, “live with you so casually, where we could be doing _anything_ at any given time, just proves that you’re, like, one of the gayest dudes on campus.”

John blinked. He hadn’t quite thought about that yet.

“ _Also_ , it’s not even that far-fetched!” Alex continued. “Everyone knows that we hang out all the time and do some shit that _could_ be considered gay, if taken out of context, and—” At this point, Alexander started pacing the room, and John had to stop him before he was set on going to South Carolina _right now immediately_ to be completely gay in front of his dad and every other conservative in the state, _despite_ not being in a relationship with each other.

“Alex.”

“What?”

“He wants me to take you to South Carolina over the holidays.”

“But that's perfect.”

“But we're not dating.”

Alex sighed, and said, “My dearest Laurens, were you not listening to me just now?”

“Well, yes, but winter break is in _two weeks_. How is this going to work?”

“Simple. Just be yourself.” _Easier said than done_ , John thought to himself. He knew his father thought that his friends were a bad influence on him, and he couldn't help but be anything _but_ himself during the holidays.

“And besides,” Alex began, flirtatiously, “I know you're just _dying_ to kiss me.”

  
In short, John was fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander meets the rest of the Laurens family.

“So,” John said, running a hand through his hair. “Just to clarify, we met on the second week of school, became quick friends, and have been dating since Valentine’s Day?” He paused, mentally doing the math. “So roughly ten months?”

“Just about,” Alex said from his spot on the comfy office chair at their shared desk.

A week and a half had passed since John had spoken on the phone with his dad, and only three days remained until their flight to South Carolina. Since about Monday morning, they’d been coming up with different aspects of their so-called “relationship”. Alexander had brought up the fact that they’d likely be questioned by Senator Laurens (something that John, admittedly, didn’t want to think about), so they should _probably_ come up with at least the basics that a couple would keep track of, such as when they met, _why_ they met, when they got together, and how they got together. Which brings them to this moment.

“Do you think he’d ask about our first kiss?” Alex asked, as if he was asking about the weather. John didn’t know why that bothered him, so he looked away.

“I...well, I want to say no, but maybe he’d ask _when_?” He then added, as an afterthought, “I don’t think we need to go _too_ in-depth.”

Alex seemed slightly...disappointed for a moment. Whatever it was, it was gone the next instant. Maybe John imagined it.

“But what are we gonna tell Herc and Gilbert?” John asked.

The aspiring fashion designer, Hercules Mulligan, John met during orientation. The two were paired up for an activity, as they didn’t know anyone else, and they sort of caught on well. They both had arrived in New York about a week prior, John from South Carolina, Hercules from Ireland.

Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, the Frenchman, John met by chance on the first day of school. They couldn’t quite agree on what class it was when they recall the story, but John wound up sitting next to Gilbert, and since class wouldn’t start for another ten minutes, he pulled out his French copy of _Candide_ that he picked out in France a few summers prior. Gilbert, being a foreign exchange student with limited knowledge of English, passed a note in the middle of class, reading: “ _Est-ce que tu parles français?_ ", to which John replied with, “ _Bien sûr. Pourquoi?_ ” And from there, they passed notes in French, some being in English, the whole class period. John found that Gilbert was great company, and introduced him to Hercules and Alexander, the latter of which also spoke fluent French.

“We don’t have to tell them that this is fake, right?” Alex replied, dragging John back into the present. “I mean we could, but we also run the risk of them getting drunk and telling, like, _everyone._ ”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. But how long are we going to keep this whole ‘dating but not really’ thing up?”

“Great question,” Alex said. “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Charleston, South Carolina was just as John had remembered it in the winter. Mild. A stark comparison to snowy and freezing-cold New York City, where he spent a majority of his winter last year. Alex and John had both agreed that, if asked, they’d say that John spent most of the year away from home because he wanted to spend time with Alex (when really, John just wanted to stay away from home for as long as possible. Plus, he’d rather hang out with Alex in their shared apartment than with his dad at home. New York City was just a better environment for John to be in). Alexander seemed relieved at the milder weather. The poor guy didn’t take too well to the cold, what with growing up in a place that had a warm climate all year round.

Henry Laurens picked them up at the airport, not a minute late. A few polite words were exchanged, and Alexander introduced himself to Henry as John’s boyfriend, just as they’d planned. In the car ride home, Alex and John sat in the back next to each other, fingers laced together. John caught a glimpse of them in the rear-view, just as he felt Alex rest his head on John’s shoulder. Wow. They looked like an _actual_ couple to anyone who didn’t know any better.

John really wasn’t sure why he was enjoying this so much. Maybe because he hasn’t been in a relationship since he was in high school. Yeah. That must be it.

Every so often, Henry would glance at the back seat, and it seemed like Alex made it his personal quest to be as affectionate as possible when he did. Hell, John wouldn’t be surprised if Alex kissed him a few times. After all, John said he didn’t mind if Alex did or not, since they were _technically_ a couple.

 

John should have expected that Alex would have gawked at his childhood home. All that he could do was drape his arm over the shorter man’s shoulders and lead him to the front door.

“Alex, babe, this is my house.” They hadn’t really agreed on any pet names, but it didn’t seem like Alexander was surprised to hear this. Or maybe he was, and was just really good at hiding it. That’d be a first.

Upon stepping foot into the house that he hadn’t been in since Thanksgiving a year ago, John was met with the sounds of rushing footsteps and squeals of excitement as his two sisters, Martha and Mary Eleanor, particularly Mary, excitedly embraced her brother.

“Jacky! You’re home!” she said, muffled against his chest.

“Welcome home, Jack,” came from Martha, a warm smile on her face.

John’s younger brother, Henry, whom the family called “Harry” to distinguish him from his father, stood at the foot of the stairs, watching this all unfold.

“Well, c’mere, stranger,” John said, extending an arm towards him, effectively capturing his brother in a hug. “I missed y’all.”

They all broke away a moment later, and Martha was the first to look Alex up and down, and ask, “Who’s your friend, Jack?”

“This is--”

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex smoothly cut off, extending his hand to John’s siblings. “I’m John’s boyfriend.”

Martha shook Alexander’s hand firmly, and raised an eyebrow at John. She said nothing of it, for the moment. “Martha,” she says, letting her hand leave his and taking notice of a shy Mary Eleanor hiding behind her. “Go on, say hi, Polly,” she said, gently.

“Hi,” Mary Eleanor said softly.

Alex leaned down slightly, to be more leveled with her height. “Hey there. What’s your name?”

“Mary Eleanor.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mary Eleanor,” Alex said, eliciting a smile out of the young girl. Alex was beginning to think that only Henry Laurens gave the Laurens name a bad rep.

 

* * *

 

Later, when Alexander was in the shower, Martha found John in his room.

“So,” she began, closing the door behind her. “A boyfriend, huh? You didn't tell me.”

How had John not seen this coming? He should have known, especially with his sister. “Did dad not tell you?”

“I don’t think he told anyone,” she said, then asked, “How long have you two been dating for?”

“Ten months.”

Martha paused, doing the math in her head. “Valentine’s day?”

“Yeah. Pretty cliché, but that’s just when we grew the balls to confess to finally each other.” John kept the story that Alex and he had come up with fresh in his mind. They went to dinner as a joke because they both didn’t have a Valentine to spend the night with, ended up flirting the whole night, and it was finally Alex who had enough of their pining and kissed John. Believable enough, right? Given Alexander's personality.

“Has dad talked to you yet? About, y’know,” Martha gestured vaguely with her hand.

“No, not yet. I bet he thinks I’m doing this to piss him off,” which he was, but that is neither here nor there, “but, well, I had enough of him doubtin’ my sexual orientation, so I just. Told him.”

Martha was actually the first person he told. She was only thirteen at the time, but she seemed to understand _so well_. She comforted him when he began crying midway through his explanation, telling him that she _understood_. That, for John, was his favorite thing about his sister. She didn’t doubt him for a second, which, of course, brought suspicions to the forefront of John’s mind about his sister, but he never voiced them. Being understood by her was enough.

“I don’t think he’ll ever really accept it,” said Martha, lowering her voice a bit.

“Maybe not.” John chewed the inside of his cheek. The fact that his father _hadn’t_ talked to him yet when that was the whole purpose of the trip really made him anxious. Maybe Henry was leaving it to the very end of his visit, as he usually does. John didn’t know.

Luckily, Alex called to him from the shower, asking for a towel, and also saving him from the onslaught of questions that he could practically feel Martha forming in her head. John quickly excused himself.

 

John felt as though this week was going to be an exhausting one. And he and Alex weren’t even a real couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should mention, the actual historical age difference between John and his siblings is insane, so I tweaked them a bit. Martha is 18, Henry Jr. (AKA Harry) is 16, while Mary Eleanor is 12. 
> 
> As for the French in this chapter, the translations are as follows:  
> "Est-ce que tu parles français?" - Do you speak French? (Informal)  
> "Bien sûr. Pourquoi?" - Of course. Why?
> 
> To those of you who left nice comments; thank you. I live and breathe off of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't it be nice to befriend all the Laurens siblings? Alexander thought to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would like to apologise for the huge delay in the release of this chapter. I probably should have started writing this over spring break.
> 
> Nevertheless, enjoy.

The week passed by without much incident. Alex made it a personal goal to befriend all the Laurens siblings, in one way or another.

He began with Martha. He received an email on his phone, informing him that there was a Bernie Sanders rally going on right there in Charleston, and he brought it up to John when Martha was in the room.

“Bernie Sanders?” she’d said, furrowing her brows. “The _socialist_?”

Alex raised an eyebrow at her. He’d be wrong to say that he wasn’t expecting this conversation to happen with at least one of the Laurens. “Yeah, the socialist.”

“Dad says he’s going to bankrupt the country,” Martha said, although it didn’t seem like she believed it. She looked as though she wanted to add onto it, but whatever it was, the moment to add something passed, and it was Alexander’s turn to speak.

“By being one of the only presidential candidates to really _care_ about the people who can’t afford _basic human necessities_?” Alex asked, rhetorically, then added, “I mean, I guess your dad’s excused since he’s a Republican and all, but tell me,” he leans forward in a way that makes him seem totally interested in what Martha has to say, “what do _you_ think?”

Martha seems a bit taken aback by this at first, but she responds with, “Well, what I’ve heard from him is that he’s going to raise taxes on the 1% and use that money to help make college and healthcare free.”

“Do you agree with it?”

“I…” Martha trails off a moment, glances about the room. She lowers her voice a bit. “Well, yes. But my dad doesn’t.”

John watched the exchange from his spot at the table, taking in how _careful_ Martha looks as she talks about Sanders, almost as if it’s taboo. But, when your dad is a powerful Republican senator who expects you to have similar views, it’s probably natural.

“What about Hillary Clinton?” John heard Martha asking, tuning back into the conversation. “Why aren’t you voting for her? It’d be pretty cool to have a woman president.”

“Well, yeah,” Alex began, shifting a bit in his seat. “But she shouldn’t win _because_ she’s a woman.” He took a sip of water, a moment to think about how Martha would react to his next words. “Besides, do you even know what she stands for?”

Martha’s answer wasn’t immediate. “Women’s rights?”

“What is she going to do _as president_ to help women?” he asked, and when Martha didn’t respond, he spoke again. “A wise man once said ‘those who stand for nothing fall for anything.’”

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “Who said that?”

“Me. I did.”

 

By the second day of the week, John was certain that Alex had converted his sister into a democratic socialist, like the two of them. Of course, not that John _minded_ , per se, but when Henry Laurens takes to the stage and talks about his political beliefs, it’d be difficult for her _not_ to roll her eyes. But, then again, it doesn’t seem like Martha was particularly conservative.

 

On the second day of the week, John found Alexander and Harry in Harry’s room, playing one of the _Call of Duty_ games on Harry’s Xbox.

John had just come back from going clothes shopping with his sisters (something _they_ insisted on doing, not him), and heard… _yelling_ coming from upstairs. Only Alex and Harry were home, and John could hear one of them–or both?–laughing. Grabbing a few snacks on his way upstairs, John was brought to this moment, standing in the doorway to Harry’s room, watching them play.

Normally, he would have joined them, but there was something _endearing_ about seeing Alex bond with his brother like that. Albeit, they were shouting and probably didn’t even hear them come home, it was all in good fun (and John could see that Alex was getting his ass handed to him).

Wait, _what_?! _Endearing_? John needs to remind himself that he and Alex aren’t _actually_ dating. How easy is it to forget that fact? They’ve been a fake couple for three days, John’s just getting caught up in the whole act. That’s all it is.

“Oh, babe!” Alex says, and John’s heart flutters embarrassingly. Their match was over, and they were on the lobby screen. “I didn’t hear you come in!” Alex beckons for John to come sit next to him, and he does, arms full of snacks. He places them on the floor in front of them.

Harry grabs a bag of chips and says, “D’you wanna play, Jack?”

“Nah, that’s alright,” he says, prompting Harry to shrug and ask Alex if he’s ready to get his ass whooped again (to which Alex responds with an indignant _I was only letting you win!_ but everyone knows that’s bullshit).

John thinks there’s something wrong with himself for enjoying something fake _this much._ He tries not to dwell on it.

 

“Hey John, whose copy of Macbeth is this?”

John turned away from the coffee maker. It was about seven in the morning and John was only awake because Alex was awake, and Alex didn’t want to run the risk of being confronted by Henry Laurens so early in the morning. John swears he hadn’t been up this early since that one time he pulled an all nighter writing an essay for one of his classes.

“I _know_ you don’t read Shakespeare on your free time,” Alex continues, flipping through the pages of the relatively thin script.

John took one glance at the copy, and recognised it immediately. “That’s Mary Eleanor’s.” He gave it to her for her twelfth birthday a few months back. “She should be up soon,” he said, glancing at the clock behind him – his youngest sister was always an early riser.

Roughly an hour and two cups of coffee later, Alex and Mary Eleanor, who had wandered into the kitchen at around seven thirty, were now discussing their favourite old novels.

“Have you read _1984_?” Alex asked, and when Mary Eleanor shook her head, he went on, “It’s sitting on my shelf at our apartment. I’ll bring it the next time I’m here.” Alex smiled slightly. “It’s a dystopian sort of novel, but I think you’d like it.

“Ooh!” he said, suddenly, reaching into the bag lying at his feet and pulling out a book. He showed it to Mary Eleanor.

“ _Fahrenheit 451_?” she read. Alex watched as she took it in her hands and read the back. He could see her raise her eyebrows at the first sentence, and when she had finished reading the relatively short paragraph, she looked up at him.

“Do you mind if I borrow this book?”

Alex shook his head quickly, hair whipping in his face half because of the movement and half because of the coffee he had earlier. He should probably tie it back. “Of course not!” he exclaimed. He’d probably be offended if she _didn’t_ want to read it. Hell, if the first page didn’t fully grip her, he didn’t know what would. “Just give it back to me the next time I’m here. Or mail it. Whichever comes first.” He shrugged, and ran a hand through his hair. He’d have to borrow a hair tie from John. Alex swears the ones he brought with him disappeared within a day.

Usually, Alex doesn’t see people as young as Mary caring about books, never mind actually _reading_ them. It’s strangely refreshing seeing her engrossed in the novel so quickly.

He thinks she’d make a great literature major. Maybe he’ll bring it up if he ever sees her again after this (which, by the looks of it, doesn’t seem unlikely).

 

That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, John sat at his desk in his room, the only source of light emanating from the lamp sitting at the edge of his desk. He could feel the anxiety of not knowing _when_ his father would come into his room, or anywhere, and talk to John about...whatever it was he wanted to talk about.

He glanced at the digital display of the clock on his night stand. It was almost two in the morning. He took a breath. Everything would be okay.

John nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a sharp rapping on the door. For a split, panicked second, he thought it was his father, but then he heard a voice through the door.

“John, _I swear to god_ you better be awake,” Alex whispered harshly, after having found the door was locked. Only Alex would be awake at this time. Technically John wasn’t _supposed_ to lock the door to his room for “safety” reasons, but he’s a grown ass man. He can do what he wants. (Evidently not, since he’s still scared shitless of what his dad’s going to say.)

He quickly got up from his chair and unlocked the door, allowing a sparsely dressed Alexander into his room before he woke up the entire house.

“Dude, _what_ are you doing?” John spoke lowly, pushing Alex away from the door. Seeing him only in his boxers was not a new sight to John, as Alex tended to prefer not wearing a lot of clothes to bed, but somehow, John was having a hard time _not_ looking at all of his exposed skin.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” Alex said, like it explained everything.

John glanced to where his phone was lying on his nightstand, green light blinking to indicate that he had new notifications. “Sorry,” he said. “I was reading. But that doesn’t explain why this couldn’t have waited ‘til morning.”

“Look,” Alexander said, getting to the point right away. “We have to prepare for this talk with your dad, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ve already befriended your siblings, so if your dad tries to kick me out or prevent us from ‘seeing’ each other, he’d have to deal with them on his ass for doing so.”

John blinked. That was actually a pretty smart idea. “I didn’t even think about that.”

Alexander grinned. “I know.” He even had the nerve to wink. John rolled his eyes at his “boyfriend’s” antics.

“So now what?”

“Remember how I said that we should kiss when we ‘think no one’s looking’?”

John couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face when he said, “Well, if you wanted to kiss me, you could have just asked nicely and I might have said yes.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe it is.” John leaned closer, just the slightest bit.

For a moment, they locked eyes. In the dim lighting, all that John could see was the darkness of Alexander’s eyes, and the mysticism it brought. He noticed that Alex was leaning in a bit as well, and wondered for a brief second if he was actually going to kiss him.

“If only your dad could see this.”

John blinked. “Huh?”

Alex drew back, now leaning against John’s desk. What a way to ruin a moment. There was a smile on his face (of course there was), and John could see Alex rub his arms, gooseflesh raising the skin. He shook his head.

“Nothing, nothing.” Before John could ask more about _what the fuck was that just now_ , Alex changed the subject. “What do you think your dad would say when he finally ‘talks’ to us?”

“Well, I have a few guesses…”

From there, the two began constructing mock arguments based on what John thinks his dad might, and would, say. It was about four in the morning when John decided to call it a night and sent Alex back to his room, across the house.

  
That’s not to say that John _didn’t_ think of how differently the night could have gone, had the two kissed two hours previous. But, he tried keeping those thoughts to himself.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a few things to say to his father, and has just the opportunity to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on spring break for now, so hopefully updates will come quicker? Maybe. Enjoy.

“Jack,” came Henry's firm voice. John turned around. “Can I speak with you?”

John looked to Alexander. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he had to say, he was _not_ ready.

“ _Alone_ , if possible.” Henry pointedly looked at Alex.

“I’ll be back, babe,” John said, practically feeling Henry resist the urge to cringe.

 

In the “safety” of his dad’s study, John examined the room. Nothing had changed since he was last here. That old wind up clock that sat upon the mantle of the fireplace that stood to the right of the dark maple desk still ticked annoyingly. It was surrounded by pictures of the family. There was one of John and his mother, back when he was fifteen. John felt his heart twist at that photo. He remembered exactly where it was taken; at an amusement park in Southern California. Maybe Universal Studios.

The trip itself was amazing. It was before his mother died, of course. Before things got bad with her health. It was sunny and warm, the air was light, and the beach they visited (the Santa Monica Pier, he thinks) was one of the most gorgeous things he’s ever seen. Thinking back, John probably wouldn’t mind living somewhere in California. It has a different feel than the entire east coast has.

Henry cleared his throat. John’s eyes flickered to where he stood behind the desk, likely hand crafted generations ago, gesturing towards the seat before it. They both sat down. John’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he willed himself to calm down.

“Son,” his father began, sitting back in the lavish chair. “I know that we’ve had our fair share of disagreements.”

John stayed silent. He willed himself to sit up straight, to keep his head up high, to not show Henry that he was terrified of what his father was going to say. But, well, John _didn’t_ know what his dad was going to say. Maybe that’s what terrified him the most.

“But,” Henry continued, then paused. John’s breathing switched off of auto and onto manual. He managed not to dig his fingers into the stupid cushions of this ridiculously comfortable chair. “This has to stop.”

John furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?” Thankfully, his voice was steady and firm. Something he learned to do years ago.

“ _This_. This whole ‘gay’ thing.” Henry gestured vaguely with one hand. He didn’t look at John.

Wow. His father was so predictable. “Dad, with all due respect, have you learned _nothing_ in this _whole time_ I’ve been out to you?

“Something that you have to understand is that coming out as gay to you has been one of the _hardest_ things in my life.” John tried to keep his tone respectful, but truly, it was a difficult feat. He took a breath before saying anything more. “Yes, I understand the differences in our views. I _understand_ how you were raised. I know what the bible says. I’ve studied it. I am _not_ trying to go against you. Being gay is _not_ a choice. Why would _anyone_ choose a life of discrimination and intolerance? A life where you can be denied housing, credit, and _service_ from _restaurants_ , just because of who you love?” John was seething. He had raised his voice by the end of his miniature rant.

“Dad,” he began, again, “don’t you dare invalidate _my_ sexuality just because it conflicts with _your_ beliefs. Yeah, you were raised a certain way, but you also raised _me_ like that, and _I’m_ smart enough to know that intolerance is _not_ the way to deal with things.” John was near-glaring at his father, challenging him for perhaps the second time in his life. He sat at the edge of his seat, gesturing angrily with his hands as he spoke.

“I’ve dealt with intolerance from _you_ , my own _father_ , my entire life! If you love me, your _son_ , you would accept me for _who I am_ , and not who you want me to be.” John was suddenly reminded of Alex in the other room, his best friend that came with him to fucking _South Carolina_ , all to piss off his dad.

He did seriously wonder what he _really_ felt for Alex, but now was beyond _not the time_.

“And yeah, Alex and I are dating. We’re not just _pretending_ to be gay.” _Except we are_ , John thought.

John sat back, breathing slightly harder than he had been a few minutes ago. All that could be heard was the ticking of that old clock sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. Henry seemed to be searching his son’s face. For what, John did not know. All that he knew is that with each second of silence from his father’s end, John only felt more nervous about what he had said. Yes, it needed to be said, but...perhaps not in that fashion. But then something strange happened.

Henry smiled.

Yes, he _smiled._ His lips curled up at the ends, and he even let out a half-amused chuckle. John sat there, aghast. He had rarely seen his father smile since his mother had passed. He didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“After all this time, you _still_ think that way?”

It took John a moment to comprehend that. “What?” He blurted out, half amused chuckle and full astonishment.

“Are you hearing yourself, son? I don’t get why _anyone_ would want to have that kind of life, but, well I don’t control them. It’s not my life to live, and it shouldn’t be _yours_ , either.” Henry paused, almost as if he dared his son to argue against him. John remained silent, fuming as he forced himself to slowly sit back in that ridiculous chair.

Henry went on, an air of authority radiating around him. John stood his ground. “This needs to stop. You need to find a _girl_ friend.”

John cut off whatever bullshit he was going to say next. “Were you not listening to me just now? I’m GAY, dad. As in _homosexual_. A male attracted to other males.”

“You’re not _really--_ ”

“ _Yes_ , I am!”

“ _Enough!_ ” Henry raised his voice. John immediately shut his mouth. _Fuck, shit_ , Henry only ever raises his voice when he can’t otherwise be heard, or when he’s _really_ angry. Or both. It was probably both in this case.

“I have had enough of this. _John_ \--” Henry gave his son a piercing glare, noticing the use of his actual name made him flinch. “The last time I checked, _I_ was the one paying for your college. _I_ pay for your rent. _I_ pay for your books.” John could feel his palms start to sweat against the expensive fabric of that frivolous chair. He hoped that this wasn’t going where he thought it was going.

“I welcome you back home _despite_ our conflicting interests, and _this_ is how you speak to me? When I’ve provided _everything_ for you?”

John wouldn’t be guilt-tripped. Not like this. “Dad--”

“If you don’t shape up soon, you’re moving back to Charleston. It was a mistake sending you up there.”

John’s entire being filled with panic. _No_ , he _cannot_ move back here. He can’t pretend to be someone he isn’t. Voice surprisingly steady, he said, “But, dad, I--”

“ _End of story_. This is your only warning.” He gestured towards the door. “Now go. This conversation is over.”

John sat there a moment, fearing his legs would shake if he got up. But, with one final look from his father, he stood from his seat, and walked as quickly as he could to the door. Once out, he shut the door behind him and started down the hallway. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep irrational fears from surfacing.

  
This trip had taken a turn for the worse, surely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander learns of the little "chat" John had with his father. And what timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so Pumped for this fic oh my god. It is currently ass in the morning. Enjoy.

“ _I’m going to fucking punch him!_ ”

John watched as his friend paced back and forth in his room, the hour more than unholy. Why were they always discussing Henry Laurens at ass in the morning? Who knew.

“ _Alex_ , keep your voice down!” John whispered harshly. The last thing he wanted was one of his siblings telling their dad that Alexander and John were in the same room at three in the morning. It would _definitely_ not do his situation any good.

“How did you _expect_ me to react?!” John could see the fire growing in his friend’s eyes. He did _not_ want to be the one subject to all that anger.

“What, did you want me to just _not_ tell you that my dad _may or may not_ have threatened to cut me off if I didn’t ‘shape up’?!”

“Well-- No, but--” Alex let out a frustrated groan and promptly collapsed onto John’s bed, hands balled up into fists over his face.

 

When John came out of Henry’s study, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want anyone to see how his emotions, his _fear_ , was playing across his features. He ducked into the bathroom for a few minutes. Not long enough for him to get his mood back up (that would likely take hours, maybe days), but just long enough for him to splash cold water on his face and look somewhat more...calm.

John took a few deep breaths. Okay. So, his dad just threatened to cut him off completely and force him to live down in Charleston. The worst that could happen? John is doomed to live here for a few more years. That’s fine, he supposes, he can live here for a few years. He _does_ miss his siblings from time to time, but he could always give them a call…

Best case scenario? He “shapes up”, whatever that means, and his father continues supporting him in New York. That’s easy. John can do that. He only regrets not having stuck around long enough to ask what “shaping up” means. But, then again, he sort of feared the answer he would have gotten.

John dried his face and looked into the mirror. He relaxed the muscles in his face, slowly letting out a breath. He looked remarkably less freaked out than he had just ten minutes prior. Good. He needed to tell Alexander, but not in front of everyone.

In his room that night, he decided.

 

Roughly twelve hours had passed since John and his father last spoke, save for a brief _goodnight_ at 10 pm. It was about three in the morning at this point. John had nearly forgotten to tell Alex until he received a text from him, asking about his conversation with Henry (whom Alex had taken to calling “Hades”, because “ _that’s just who he is, John._ ”)

John glanced at where Alex lied on his bed. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt. John swears Alex will get sick one day for not putting a shirt on immediately after getting out of bed. Or even at least a blanket. John could see the shadows of Alex’s ribs, becoming more pronounced as he breathed in. A sign of not quite eating enough in childhood. His eyes slowly trailed downwards. Over his navel. The dark happy trail. Until…

John cleared his throat. He turned his back to Alexander, facing his desk now, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Or the slight bulge in his pants. Well, if his sexuality needed to be proven any more than it has been, take _that_ for instance.

“Worst case scenario, I move back to Charleston. Which is a terrible thing to think about.” He settled on crossing his arms, silently cursing the looseness of pajama pants.

“Which _won’t_ happen.”

“ _Jesus_ , I should probably get a job. Just in case.”

John could hear Alex get up and walk towards him. “Maybe some part of him that hasn’t been fucked up actually cares about you.” He was right behind John now. Maybe he shrugged. John couldn’t see him. “Could be an empty threat.” Alexander crossed in front of John, now leaning against the desk. “I’m still gonna fucking deck him.”

There was a beat of silence. John’s gaze remained fixed on his desk lamp. He didn’t dare look at his friend for the time being. If Alex noticed anything _different_ , he didn’t say anything.

“If he _does_ do anything, what’ll the people think?” John looked up at Alex. His friend was using the rationale that he himself had used when coming out to his father.

“If he cuts me off, I’ll go to the press…” John trailed off, and Alex picked up for him.

“...And have them publish a story about it!”

“Talk about all the shit things he’s done, while I’m at it.”

Alex high-fived John, perhaps a little too loudly, but John had the reassurance that his father wouldn’t do anything, so it was okay. They grinned at each other. Not a moment later, John’s phone vibrated from its place on his nightstand. He reached over and checked to see who it was.

He frowned. “It’s from Harry.” Alex leaned over to see as John read it aloud. “‘I don’t mind that you’re seeing your boyfriend in the dead of night, but could you maybe keep it down? I won’t tell dad or anything.’ Oh, he’s typing.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. He didn’t know how Alexander stayed up this late _every night._ Maybe it was the coffee. “‘Also, for future reference, you should probably talk shit on dad in the basement. So he won’t, y’know, find out.’” John let out a soft laugh, typing in an,  _Okay, little bro. Will do._ He turned to Alex.

“Maybe you should go back to your room. Wouldn’t do no good havin’ to deal with a scandal tomorrow mornin’.” John could tell his accent was changing. He didn’t care. He was tired.

Alex smiled at his friend. “Yeah, probably. C’mon, give me a hug.” He held his arms out, and John couldn’t help but give him exactly what he wanted. They pulled apart a few moments after, and John stifled a yawn.

“Get some sleep, baby girl,” John said when Alex was halfway out the door, mostly because he could. It didn’t seem like he minded.

“Oh, I will.” He turned back, poking his head inside the room. “You, ah...might wanna take care of that.” Alex pointedly glanced down at John’s groin, and even had the nerve to wink.

The door was shut by the time John threw a pillow at him.

 

The following morning, John woke up to Martha lightly shaking his shoulder. His head was surprisingly clear, but his limbs, his legs especially, felt gross. Like he had four hours of sleep. Which is likely the case.

“Breakfast is ready, Jack. Don’t let your food get cold,” Martha warned him, a pleasant smile on her face. John couldn’t help but think of how pure she is.

With a sleepy _be right down_ , Martha left the room to let John change out of his pajamas. He really didn’t want to eat breakfast with his dad.

A few minutes later, John was downstairs, somewhat shocked to see Alex sitting at the table, as attentive as ever. He either didn’t sleep the whole night, or he just woke up early and had about ten cups of coffee. John wouldn’t put it past him.

“Mornin’,” John greeted.

“Morning,” his “boyfriend” echoed.

John exchanged similar greetings with his family members (even his father) as they all sat down and prepared to eat. Pleasant conversation went around the table, Mary Eleanor and Alexander discussed that book that Alex had recommended a few days prior, Martha and their father talked about colleges and how Martha was doing in school. Which left Harry and John.

“I missed you, Jack. It was great havin’ you here with us.”

John took a sip of his juice. “It was great being here,” he admitted, looking at his younger brother. He could see a bit of stubble growing on Harry’s jawline. It’d been nearly a year since John paid a proper visit to Charleston, and frankly, he _had_ missed a lot.

Harry had a growth spurt since the last time John saw him. Martha got her first car. Mary Eleanor’s teeth grew in. It’s small things like this that John would be missing. While he studied away up in New York, his siblings grew up without him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe staying in Charleston wouldn’t be that bad of an option…

“Promise you’ll call me after I leave?” John asked, set on staying in his siblings’ lives as much as he could.

“Sure,” Harry stuffed a piece of sausage into his mouth, the meaning of those words going completely over his head. John would have said more, but his father spoke up.

“Jack,” said he, calling his son to attention. “Martha will be taking you to the airport. I have a lot of work to do today.”

John nodded. Of course he had work.

 

The car ride to the airport that afternoon was pleasant enough. Alex insisted upon holding John’s hand, and who was he to deny his friend? Even Martha had cooed about how cute they were. Maybe they were doing _something_ right.

At least they didn’t have to worry about the imposing force of Henry Laurens’ presence in the car.

John got on that plane with the full intent of sleeping the whole way through. Alex had other plans, because of _course_ he did.

“Dude, what are we gonna tell Herc and Gilbert?”

John blinked. Then blinked again. He was too tired for this. “That we’re quote, unquote, dating?” He said, albeit it sounded more like a question. “I don’t know. Just text them. Like, ‘by the way, John and I are super gay for each other. Haha, see you later we can’t talk right now we’re on a plane. Gotta blast.’ I don’t know.”

“Done,” Alex claimed, perhaps a little too swiftly.

“Wait, seriously?” John peered over at Alex’s phone. “You even typed ‘gotta blast’. I can’t believe you.” His words were chastising, but his tone was playful.

“You love me!” Alex said matter-of-factly, leaning in a bit.

John pushed his face away. “In your dreams!”

“I know.”

He paused a moment, retracting his hand. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing. Go to sleep!” But John didn’t miss the slight look of panic that flashed about his friend’s face.

  
What could this mean?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert has a few things to say to Alex and John, and John remembers a few things from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. Schoolwork needed to be done.  
> A few things to say here. For newer readers, this doesn't apply to you, so you can go ahead and skip over this.
> 
> 1\. John and Alexander have been "together" for ten months. Not eight. I've already gone back and changed that. It's not really huge to the plot, but it's a pretty big error to me.  
> 2\. John was actually sixteen when he came out to his father, not fifteen, because his birthday is actually in October, so in theory, he should have been sixteen. Oops. I should probably proofread before I post lol
> 
> Anyways, enjoy. (Also, warning: slight angst.)

Gilbert and Hercules agreed to meet Alexander and John at the airport, mostly because they had driven them there to save money, and partially because…well.

You’ll see.

“ _Hé,_ you two have some explaining to do!” Came from Gilbert, directly upon seeing the two. He stormed up to them, Hercules trailing behind him.

John looked to Alex. Moment of truth.

“Monsieur Lafayette! A pleasure to see you on this fine evening,” Alexander said, immediately causing John to suddenly massage his temples. He regrettably sympathized with Hercules now, who seemed exasperated to even be here.

“Tell me,  _monsieur Hamilton_ , how _long_?”

“Well, I can’t exactly _tell you_ how long his dick is—”

“ _Alex_ , oh my god!” John sputtered out.

“What? Did you want me to tell him or something? My boyfriend’s dick is bigger than mine! I mean, we’ve never measured, I’m just _assuming—_ ”

John rolled his eyes, staring at the ceiling for a fat second before he could even begin to clarify what _exactly_ his friend was talking about. Alex was ridiculous. Only _he_ would make a dick joke _here._ “Gilbert, what are you talking about?” But, John already knew the answer.

“How long have you and mister _I stay up all night and never sleep_ here been dating?”

Alex opened his mouth to retort, but John smoothly cut him off before this turned into a debate. “Ten months.”

Gilbert looked at them like they were utterly insane for not telling him sooner.

“Hey, so can we maybe talk about this in the car?” Hercules broke into the conversation that was bound to continue if he hadn’t intervened, checking his watch. “I have something to do later.”

Gilbert smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. The way he switched his attention so quickly was astounding. “ _Oh_ , a date, perhaps?”

The Irishman was not about to put up with this. “If it gets us out of here, quicker, sure. Something like that.”

 

Being in the car with these four was no less different than it had been before John and Alex got themselves into this mess. Their laughter was as raucous as it could get, jokes, made on the spot, were never in short supply, and they jumped from to topic like it was nobody’s business. They formed half-plans to go to the bar sometime later, completely forgetting what had brought them there in the first place. That is, the state of Alex’s and John’s relationship. It was almost amusing how the four of them, especially Gilbert, fell back into old habits, almost deprived of social interaction in the few days that half their group was in South Carolina.

John couldn’t help but watch the bright lights outside go by in a blur as they entered the large city known as New York. He remembered his old friends in Geneva asking him to take pictures for them when he went off to college.

Yes, John studied in Geneva, Switzerland for the last half of his high school career. Those short two years were, perhaps, the happiest years of his life. He was, first off, away from his overbearing father, Secondly, he could feel like he was actually striving _towards_ something, something substantial, something that he never felt in American schools. He felt as though the work he put in was paying off.

With schools in the United States, it was to John like a treadmill to anyone. Sure, it felt like work, but there was no movement to speak of. In Switzerland, they were setting him up for success, and not failure. In the fairly liberal city of Geneva, John learned _so much_ from just the environment itself. It’s where he learned that his father’s conservative policies were not quite right, humanely, such as his refusal to raise the minimum wage, his promotion of the Iraq war, his homophobia, among many, _many_ other issues. It is where John learned that the feelings that he had felt towards men wasn’t _wrong_ , only the perception of those telling him that it is.

At age sixteen, after John’s mother passed, and after he came out to his father, he was sent to Geneva to finish the rest of his general education. To John, it felt like a stab in the gut. Almost like his own father couldn’t stand to _look_ at his own son, as if the fact that he was gay was too much to bear in addition to the recent passing of his wife. John always _did_ look more like his mother than his father. It was a fact that saddened John himself at times when he looked in the mirror, especially the more he grew out his hair. (Which is probably why he grew some facial hair, albeit not much. It was enough for him to stop thinking of his mother _every single time_ he looked in the mirror.)

At age seventeen, John had learned that _he_ was not in the wrong. It was his father. John had met someone in Geneva, who, coincidentally, was from South Carolina, just like him. Francis Kinloch had taught him that being gay was no bad thing. The story of their meeting is unremarkable; they met each other on the day before school through their living arrangements, became swift friends, and that was the end of that.

But it wasn’t, really. If not for Francis Kinloch, John would be doomed to live his life in the closet, too scared of the repercussions that may come from fully coming out. He would be forced to live under the oppressive hand of his father, all because of the fact that he hadn’t accepted who he was. But he _had_ because of his dear friend, a friend who may have been something more.

John wants to believe that Francis hadn’t forgotten about him, but there was no way to tell. John returned to the states with an acceptance letter from Columbia University, and the knowledge that Francis Kinloch would be attending university in Geneva. _Adieu, kiss all the pretty Genevoise for me,_ was the last thing that John had told his cherished friend in person. Of course, there was always Facebook and other ways to contact each other, but time differences and life often got in the way of properly communicating. So they just didn’t. And that seemed to be the end of that.

Except now, as the lights of the city carved their way into the depths of John’s memory, the fact that Francis Kinloch was still in Europe resurfaced in his mind. He would always tell John how he dreamed of travelling to New York City one day, when school was finished, and when he had the funds to do it. One of these days, John might just run into him.

Feeling a hand slide into his, John was met with the sight of Alexander’s intelligent eyes, sunken in slightly from lack of sleep. It occurred to John that Alex was waiting for a response.

“What?” He asked.

“You alright?” Alex repeated himself.

“I...yeah.” John smiled slightly. Alex could be sweet sometimes. “Why?”

“You just zoned out, is all."

“Get a room, you two!” Hercules said intrusively from the front seat, prompting them to separate. Alex had a stupid smile on his face. John could feel his face get warm. What the hell was wrong with him? The two of them were really just friends. If friends fake dated each other and made a huge show out of it in front of their other friends who were convinced that they were dating _for real_ , then sure, they were friends.

“Get us home quicker if you don’t want us _gaying_ up the place!” Came from Alex.

“Keep it in your pants, Hamilton.”

  
Right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last minute Christmas shopping, a party, and...well. You'll see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to find time to write for the past week. School started up again, but I had time to write over the weekend, mostly. So enjoy.  
> Also: warning for slight alcohol use in this chapter.  
> (follow me on tumblr my url is unknownexploits)

Perusing the shelves upon shelves of the many novels, biographies, and essays as well as literary works of art that have surpassed the test of time, and will continue to keep doing so, John found himself in _Barnes and Noble_ at a rather busy time of the month; or rather, it was the time of _year_ that inconvenienced him, and many others, most.

A week before Christmas.

Otherwise known as: blood, sales, and tears.

He _knows_ he should have done this earlier. But, well, on his free days he didn’t _feel_ like doing anything else but enjoy the time he had off with a cup of freshly ground coffee, maybe tea, and a few hours alone with his laptop. On Netflix. Maybe catching up on some shows he’s embarrassingly behind on.

Beside him, Alexander sneezed.

“Bless you,” John said, mostly out of reflex.

“Thanks.” Alex sniffed. “So, uh, are you done or..?”

“I…” John trailed off, punctuating his sentence by gesturing vaguely at Alex.

“Wow, that was the most _eloquently_ put answer I have ever heard in my life! Truly. I could never match that.”

“Oh shut up,” John said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t need your, your _sass._ ”

“Out-sass me, Laurens. Let’s have a sass brawl.”

“Only in your wildest dreams.”

“I don’t need your _sass_ , John,” Alex parroted his friend, mockingly.

“Oh my god. You’re unbelievable.”

“You know it, babe.”

Again, John rolled his eyes. Alex probably winked. He turned his head back to the rows of fresh books in front of them before he could see. That was a thing that Alex did lately. Winking. Pet names. Even when no one they knew was around. John had gotten used to it, just like he did with anything else Alexander did on his free time. Like writing into the (not so) wee hours of the morning, and hearing the coffee machine wake him up at around five in the morning sometimes. It just became a thing Alex did, and John accepted that as fact.

Besides, they were _staying_ in this mess of a “relationship” under the premise that their friends would unintentionally, albeit drunkenly, rat them out.

Not that John minded. Holding Alex’s hand sometimes was nice. They still haven’t kissed, which was fine with John, because he totally hadn’t thought of it happening more than several times since he said he was okay with kissing. He swears he hasn’t.

“Would your sister like this one?” Alex brought John back from his train of thought before he could think of kissing him again, holding out a book.

“ _The Trial_. Huh.” He took the book in his hands. John read it once or twice in high school and _thoroughly_ enjoyed it. Why hadn’t he thought of Kafka? “I think she would, but I don’t think she’s read any modernist texts? Besides _Fahrenheit 451_.”

“Just be glad I’m not suggesting _The Hollow Men._ ”

“Don’t corrupt my sister until she’s at _least_ in the tenth grade, please.”

In response to that, Alex just pat him on the shoulder.

 

 

Getting to the post office before 6 pm (which is when they closed, for _some_ reason) was no easy feat. _Shipping_ packages and being back home by 8 pm was even more difficult, but somehow, John managed. He hoped that the gifts he bought his siblings, and his father, would get there on or before Christmas. Somehow, his youngest sister was the hardest one to shop for. (But apparently Alex already bought and sent packages to John’s family. Where he got the time, and the funds, John didn’t know.)

John took a quick shower when he got back to their shared apartment, putting on something that he hoped was dressy casual: a light grey button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, black, slim fitting jeans, and some low-cut boots he bought online. Actually, he didn’t care if he was conforming to the dress code. He looked _good._

Alex dressed similarly, except that the shirt he wore was white, and his boots were more like some off-brand Docs. John let him borrow a nice, olive colored coat. Putting on his own coat, a dark -- grey or blue, he wasn’t sure -- snatched from the rack that stood in the entryway near the front door, he had to admit, they looked pretty hot. The perks of being in a “relationship”, he supposes.

Piling into John’s car, Alex complained that it was cold, turned the heater on, and proceeded to complain even more that the air coming from the vents was cold. To which John laughed at, gaining a scowl from his friend.

They drove a bit, into the heart of Manhattan, to get to an expensive penthouse located near the Trump Tower (something both John and Alex glared at as they passed). It seemed like the party was already going on by the time they rode the elevator long enough to get to the room where it was happening.

George William Frederick III was the president of Columbia University, something of a prodigy child, and came from very obvious wealth. Even seeing him around at school, there was a sense of _regality_ in everything that he did, from walking to class, to writing down notes, even to unlocking his phone. There was no doubt about it. George was a man born, raised, and living on heaps of old money.

But Alexander clearly was not. And it was truly a wonder _why_ he was invited in the first place.

“Alex, you made it!” came an effeminate voice, ringing through the air like small bells. Alexander looked up at the sound of his name, a flash of recognition going through his mind.

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” he said, grasping her hand in his and bending down to press a light kiss to her knuckles. She, of all people, would most definitely be here. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Business,” she said simply, delicately shrugging her shoulders. “There’s word going around that you’re going to run for the presidential seat this year, or so I’ve heard.” Her rouge lips curled up into a smile. The way she could dominate a conversation like this never ceased to amaze him.

“Oh? Where did you hear that?” Alexander cocked an eyebrow at her, but she simply smiled secretly.

“I have my sources.” She paused for a moment, and then lowered her voice slightly, a type of charm that made Alexander want to lean in. “Is it true?”

He let a few seconds pass before answering. “If it is?”

“How do you plan on winning? George wins by a landslide each year.”

Alex leaned back against a wall, looking her in the eye. “Have you been keeping up with the presidential elections, dear Eliza?”

“Of course,” she said, meeting his gaze.

“Then, I take it you know the importance of minorities, yes?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, do you think that millennial college students will vote for a straight, white, male who practically _bathes_ in money? Or would they vote for a bisexual Latino, who has a boyfriend, like me?” Alex watched as Eliza’s expression shifted to slight shock, then to elation.

“What?! Since when?” She clutched her drink close to her chest, eyes sparkling with piqued interest.

“Oh, just February,” he said, nonchalantly, like ten months was only a week long.

“And you didn’t tell me? I’m hurt.” She placed a hand over her chest as a sort of show of how offended she was, but that’s all it was: a show.

“But, wait, with _who_?” she asked after a beat of silence.

“Freckles,” he said with a cheeky grin, and Eliza’s jaw dropped.

“ _Laurens_? As in, your roommate, John Laurens?”

“The one and only.”

“Well – where is he?”

“He’s, somewhere around here,” Alex said, looking about the room. John wasn’t very hard to find, all one had to do was look for the trio making a lot of noise near the bar. Both Hercules and Gilbert were here. Hercules because he was, strangely, friends with George, and Gilbert because of his title: Lafayette.

John had joined the two as soon as he walked in, wasting no time in ordering a drink for Alex and himself. The three were already laughing up a storm about who knows what. John excused himself as soon as the drinks he ordered were given to him and made his way over to Alex and Eliza.

He handed one of the drinks to Alex, and judging by its color, it was probably rum and cola. Before John could say anything, Eliza spoke.

“You have to tell me your secret, John. Just _how_ did you tame this nonstop beast?”

Alex laughed like it was a compliment. “Thank you, thank you. I try.”

“Well, it was no easy feat,” John replied, laughing as well. He slipped his hands into Alex’s, who graciously laced their fingers together. The one or two sips of alcohol he had already made him feel a bit more social. “I had to get him to stop writing for two seconds so I could ask him out on a proper date.”

“You! Please, _I_ asked you out first.”

“Sorry, his memory gets a little fuzzy sometimes,” John said to Eliza.

“I am literally right here.”

“Oh my god!” Came from Eliza. “You guys are too cute!” She looked as though she was about to say more, but something from across the room caught her attention. “I’m sorry, guys. My sister’s calling me. It was really nice talking to you two,” she said as a way of excusing herself, heels clicking on the elaborate flooring as she smiled politely and walked away.

Alex spoke first. “Maybe we should hold hands the whole night. Y’know, so people _know_.”

“Is this just an excuse for you to hold my hand?” John teased.

“I...listen here,” Alex began, but didn’t continue.

“Aww, how sweet. Do you want me to kiss your cheek, too?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, cheeks reddening. John just laughed.

“C’mon, let’s --”

“ _Wait_.”

“What?”

“Aaron Burr is talking to George.”

John furrowed his brows. “I didn’t think they liked each other.”

“Apparently they do?” Alex nudged him, gesturing towards the secluded corner they were standing in. Whispering about something.

“What d’you think they’re talking about?”

“I dunno. Could be anything.”

John snorted softly. “Well, you know Burr. Making _friends_ wherever he goes.”

In that moment, George and Aaron looked in their direction, turning to face the wall immediately after.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just a coincidence?” John supplied.

“Could be.”

“It’s none of our business, anyways. C’mon.” He gently tugged on Alex’s hand, prompting him to follow him back to their friends at the bar.

 

 

A few hours later, John and Alexander found themselves in a bit of a predicament. They were caught in a doorway, unknowingly lured there by their friends. Before them hung a mistletoe.

“Uh…” John wasn’t sure what to do. Should he lean in and kiss his friend? Should he back away from the situation? Did Alex even _want_ to be kissed?

Gilbert and Hercules started chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”, likely a bit _more_ than tipsy at this point, cameras at the ready. One was recording and one was going to snap a picture, probably.

John looked to Alex. Alex was staring back. Wait -- shit, he was leaning in. Alex looked at John with lidded eyes, almost as an invitation...no, it _was_ an invitation. John met Alex halfway, not a moment too soon, and as his eyes fluttered shut, he could hear more than two people cheering -- or maybe that was the alcohol in John’s brain talking -- and felt the weight of Alex’s arms around his neck.

John had no idea how long they stayed that way, or even if they were where they had been. All he knew was that Alex’s lips were against his, for real, and that his own hands were planted firmly, possessively, one might say, on his boyfriend’s hips. He tilted his head one way, and Alex tilted his head the other, but soon enough, someone broke them up. And John was panting, just a bit. Why was he panting? He was completely drunk on both drink and Alexander, except he hadn’t drank as much as he would have, but he knew only that he wanted more, more of whatever _that_ was. Someone was speaking; he didn’t pay any attention to who it was. Something about a room. His mind was still hazy.

And suddenly, Alexander dragged him down a hallway, tugging him by the arm. It occurred to John sometime down the hall that Alex was speaking. He forced himself to focus, to listen.

“--but, well, you see, there’s just a small thing I’m curious about,” Alex spoke, whether nervously or exhilarated, John wasn’t sure. Probably the latter.

“Huh?” He had no idea what Alex was talking about.

“What I want to know is,” he began, leading John into a vacant room and locking the door behind them. “Where did you learn how to kiss so well?” When John simply blinked, unsure of how to answer, he continued. “I mean, I know this is just an act and all, but _damn_ , you can kiss.”

Oh.

Right.

An act.

 _One man in his time plays many parts_ , he reminded himself. Apparently, he was the “lover”.

“Well. Thank you,” John replied, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say.

There was a moment of silence. An imperceptible sort of sound could be heard. Quiet. Like the ticking of an old clock. Maybe a leaky drainage pipe in the ceiling. It was hard to tell.

John sobered up in the coolness of the room. He could feel himself being brought back to the present, no longer living in the heat of the moment. The realisation that he just kissed _Alexander freakin’ Hamilton_ in front of a room _filled_ with people set in. and with that, came a sudden bout of anxiety.

“Hey, Alex?”

“Hm?”

What was he going to say? What was there _to_ say? John was, apparently, anxious for no reason whatsoever, other than the fact that he had kissed his best friend for the first time, but shouldn’t he feel…nonchalant? They weren’t _together_ , but at the same time, they were (to the public eye anyways), and that just went to complicate everything in their lives further. Dealing with the threat of being cut off by his own father and Alexander’s public image to the school was a lot for one man.

“You’re not too bad, yourself,” he decided on saying. “But maybe we should, y’know, _not_ make out in front of people like that. Unless we need to.”

“Aww, you don’t want to kiss me? I know that we’re not really dating and all, but I’m hurt, John. Truly.”

John pushed Alex’s shoulder, grinning. “Shut up, you.”

His friend mirrored his grin. “Make me.”

“I’ll kiss you again!” He threatened.

“You’re saying that like it’s a threat!”

“Maybe it is! You never know what a man is truly thinking, dear Alexander,” he warned. “I could betray you with a kiss.”

“Oh my god. I don’t need your biblical references, mister sassy-pants.” Alex wagged a finger at John’s general direction.

 

 

Later that night, long after John and Alex returned from the penthouse in Manhattan, the two lay sleeping in their respective beds (although, Alex brought up the idea of getting rid of one of them, since they were technically “out” as a “couple”. But that is a story for another time). Snow began to fall from the sky. If one were to wake up exactly at dawn, one would see the brilliant colors of the sky, red, orange, yellow, reflected just slightly by the pure, white, ground.

But, exactly at dawn, John received a strange text on his phone.

 

**From: 212-866-4242**

**7:15 AM**

**John, we have a few questions regarding your… “relationship” with your boyfriend.**

**Meet us in central park near the Alice In Wonderland statue at 2 PM. Bring Alexander, if you want.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who could possibly have sent that text?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on tumblr! I'm unknownexploits

“Alex. Alex, _wake up_.”

Alex woke up with a start. John was staring down at him.

“ _Shit_ , did I oversleep?” He asked groggily, already sitting up.

“No, just…” John rubbed a hand over the wrinkles quickly forming over his forehead. At that, Alex leaned towards John, looking him straight in the eye. His face was lined with concern.

“ _John._ What happened?”

John said nothing, only reached for his phone.

“John?” Alex peered over his arm, trying to see what the hell was going on. He was going to...messages? John showed the screen to Alex, who took the phone in his hands and read the message at least three times over.

 

**From: 212-866-4242**

**7:15 AM**

**John, we have a few questions regarding your… “relationship” with your boyfriend.**

**Meet me in central park near the Alice in Wonderland statue at 2 PM. Bring Alexander, if you want.**

 

“What--” Alex looked up at John and then back at his phone. A burst of impulse hit him just then, and he sent back a text before John could stop him.

 

**To: 212-866-4242**

**11:57 AM**

**who the hell is this?**

 

John snatched his phone back. “Did you just--”

“Yeah.”

“ _Why_ would you--” John checked what sort of damage Alexander had sent the person on the other side of the line -- thankfully not anything huge -- but before either of them could say anymore, John’s phone chimed with a new text.

 

**From: 212-866-4242**

**11:58 AM**

**Try talking less.**

 

Alex, who was peering over John’s arm, exchanged looks with his friend.

 

 

“ _Aaron Burr, sir._ ”

The man in question turned around, tearing his gaze from the statue before him. He smiled easily at the duo, hands behind his back.

“Gentlemen,” he spoke, voice as smooth as velvet. His expression gave nothing away. “Lovely weather we’re having. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, sure, Burr,” Alex responded, having known Aaron more personally than John did. It was a little before the set time, the sky was overcast, and a fresh blanket of snow rested upon Alice and the friends she made while in her reverie. Alexander could feel the cold seeping through his shoes. This wasn’t lovely at all.

“You had some questions about us?” John stepped forward, getting right to business. He instinctively slipped his hand into Alexander’s.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if just reminded of his purpose for being there. “How long have you two been dating?”

“Ten months now.”

“Is that right?” Aaron raised an eyebrow at the two of them.

“Um,” John looked to Alex. “Yes?”

“When I heard the news a few days ago, I have to say, I was shocked.” At this, he unclasped his hands from behind his back and gestured outwards, just a bit. “I mean, you two always joked about dating, but no one thought it was _serious._ ”

“We wanted to keep it low-key,” Alex chimed in, shrugging his shoulders. He stared at Aaron evenly, trying to figure out if he was merely curious, or if he somehow _knew_ that they weren’t dating. Well. In his text, he used “we”. Alex hoped to god that it was the royal “we”.

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

They remained silent for a moment. They couldn’t just say that they _had_ to suddenly be out as a couple because of John’s dad. Could they?

“Well…” John began.

“We were drinking, you see--”

“--and--”

“--our friends were egging us on--”

“--it was really in the heat of the moment--”

Aaron held up a hand to silence them. He gazed at them with knowing eyes. “Okay. I get it. No need to explain in detail.”

They fell into a tense silence. John cleared his throat.

“Is that all?” Alex spoke up.

“Not exactly,” Aaron said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. As he scrolled through, he spoke, filling the silence in the air. “There’s news going around that you’re running for the presidential spot this year, Hamilton.”

John could feel Alex stand up a little bit straighter, making himself bigger, even though he and Aaron were about the same height. “I haven’t officially announced it yet, but. Yeah.”

“‘S that so?”

“Yeah,” he repeated.

At this point, Aaron had stopped scrolling through his phone, and gave the pair his full attention. “When do you plan to?”

Alex shrugged. “January. When the semester starts again.”

“How’re you gonna win?”

“Why does this sound like an interview?” Alex shot back.

Aaron shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

John eyed him suspiciously. There was definitely _something_ up.

“But, _minority_ groups are important, aren’t they?”

And that was it.

Something about the way he said “minority groups” made Alex’s stomach churn. Was he _eavesdropping_ on his conversation with Eliza last night? “Just what are you getting at, Burr?”

“You shouldn’t run next year.” Aaron said it smoothly, almost practiced.

John wasn’t sure if it was Alex or he who said, “What the _fuck_ \--”

“You’re not going to win.”

“ _You_ wouldn’t know that!” Alex snapped.

“Oh, sure I do.”

Aaron was too calm, too reserved, and it was pissing Alexander off. “Where’s your fucking proof?”

“My proof? George has been uncontested for the past three years.”

“And?”

“They’re starting to call him King George,” he joked.

Alex made a vague gesture that translated roughly to “so what?”

“Look at the facts, Alexander.”

“The fact that _you_ ,” Alex jabbed the air at Aaron’s chest with his finger, “and all the people on George’s side are afraid that your precious _king_ will finally fall?”

Aaron didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed the volume up button on his phone and showed the screen to the duo. Portrayed was a room, maybe a bedroom, or a study, with neutral walls and a dark door; the doorknob was a shiny sort of metal, hard to tell what kind from this angle, but it seemed to be the picture of wealth.

John realized with a start that he _knew_ this room.

He wasn’t sure _why_ , but he has a strange, hazy memory of it.

Then the door opened.

And in came Alexander, a dazed John Laurens in tow. He locked the door behind them and turned to John.

 _“Where did you learn how to kiss so well? I mean, I know this is just an act and all, but_ damn _you can kiss.”_

John could feel himself blanch. Alex slipped his hand out of his.

The video went on.

_“Well. Thank you.”_

The two watched in grim silence. Alex suddenly didn’t care about the cold seeping through his shoes, or the feeling of strange loneliness that came from having both his hands to himself. He honed in on his own face.

_“Aww, you don’t want to kiss me? I know that we’re not really dating and all, but I’m hurt, John. Truly.”_

The video ended before they left the room, and Aaron pocketed his phone. He paused, analyzing the expressions on their faces before saying anything.

“I’m sure you two understand the... _in_ _fluence_ that comes with having such a video, yes?”

Alex’s mouth was dry. His voice came out as a croak. “Is that a threat, Burr?”

Aaron simply shrugged. “It is how you interpret it.” When neither of them said anything, he went on. “Well. I’m afraid I’ll have to be leaving now.” He took a step forward and gave a slight nod to the two of them. “Gentlemen.”

He walked directly between them, creating a space as he went by.

John looked to Alex, and Alex looked to John.

 

Alex swears he never regretted saying something as a joke so quickly in his life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton doesn't hesitate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do apologise for the huge delay in this chapter. School, y'know?

As Alexander and John made their way up the steps of their apartment building, they uttered not a word to one another. Their minds were racing.

With the thought in mind that one of Alex’s enemies had had a huge receipt of the falseness of their relationship in their hands worried both of them, for completely different reasons.

In all honesty, John didn’t really care that Alex was running for the presidential seat. He never cared to ask _why_ Alex was running in the first place, and truthfully, the outcome of the race didn’t matter much to him. Of course, he would support his friend as much as he could, but he was pretty indifferent. John heard the rumors too. That Alex would be running. He questioned the validity of their sources, but never Alexander. It made John wonder: if so many people knew, who did Alex tell? _Who_ would be the first one he’d tell? Or maybe it was a rumor going around that just happened to be true?

That didn’t matter now. With the added knowledge that Aaron Burr and “King” George had video proof that their relationship was fake, John had no doubts in his mind that they would stop at nothing to ruin Alex’s reputation. And in doing so, they would effectively ruin John. John, and his relationship with his father. John, and the plan that they had so intricately put into place.

Such a video could ruin _everything._ The release of such a video would betray the trust of their friends, of John’s family, and could give their enemies the exact evidence they need to accuse them of dishonesty. But despite all that, John had no doubts in his mind that Alex would stop at _nothing_ to run for that seat.

John knew that it was selfish to think of only himself, but, he reasoned, it was also selfish of _Alex_ not to think of the mess he was dragging his friend into when he decided to run under the belief that he may win over minorities for having a boyfriend, and thus winning the election.

Alex, who knew that there was not a chance of him dropping out before he began, who knew that giving up so early just isn't _right_ , and who _knew_ that there was something wrong with the source of the problem. But he didn't know _what._

Opening up his laptop, he decided to find out what he didn't know. There _had_ to be some sort of... _legal_ issues with what the “King” did. So, instead of doing conventional research, he pulled up his email and typed in an address he knew very well, and began typing.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in grim silence, and not even the familiar sound of Alexander’s incessant typing on his laptop would alleviate the least of John’s worries.

 

At around 6 PM, there came a knock at the door.

John paused the show he was watching on his laptop (to forget the day’s events) to get up and open the door.

“Herc?” He said, letting his friend into the apartment. “What's up?” When Hercules simply walked in wordlessly, expression unreadable, John furrowed his brows and closed the door. “What's wrong?”

“Huh?” Hercules looked to John, who was looking back at him with an expression of concern. “No, nothing, just uh,” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “Where's Alex?” He decided on saying.

“In the living room, probably,” John said dismissively. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I've just gotta, ask him something,” Hercules said, already making his way to said room.

Alex sat on the couch, lounging with his feet on the coffee table, mug in hand, and scrolling through something on his laptop. His hair was pulled back into a messy bun, John noticed, likely to keep himself from being distracted with it.

“Alex?” Hercules said, drawing his attention.

“Oh– hey.” Alex reached for his phone, checking it for any texts he might have missed from Hercules, saying that he'd be coming over. When he found none, he raised his gaze to meet his friend's. “What’s up?”

“You're running for that presidential spot, right?” He asked, cutting straight to the point.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask, uh,” he looked from Alex to John, and then back at Alex. He made some sort of vague hand gesture before very bluntly asking, “This isn't just some sort of cover relationship, is it?”

John shot a look to Alexander, who met his gaze for a split second.

“Um. No?” Alex spoke, but it was more of a question.

Herc frowned. “That sounds like a lie.”

Alex hesitated before answering. “What do you mean?”

“I mean. You would usually – probably – be more,” he gestured vaguely, “ _eloquent_ , let's say, in your response. Outspoken.”

John's palms were starting to sweat. Why was Hercules the best at seeing past bullshit?

“Look, I'm gonna cut to the chase. I know you two aren't _really_ dating.”

They both paused.

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

“I mean I know you two aren’t really dating,” he repeated. When neither of them responded immediately, Herc went on. “Look, you can’t tell anyone about this, but I’m on George’s staff.”

John was the first to react. “You’re what now?”

“ _How_?” Alex was baffled.

“Well, you can’t tell anyone about this, but around this time last year, I heard _rumours_ about the way George was winning these elections. Apparently the person who spilled the beans just, disappeared over it.”

“What did you hear?” Alex inquired, raw curiosity lining his voice.

Hercules shrugged his coat off, hanging it on the metal coat rack that John must have insisted on buying. This seemed to be some sort of way to avoid answering the question immediately, John realised with a start, as Herc waited until he was settled on the couch to answer.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange how George has won the past few years, despite not having _huge_ support? Why would he be winning?”

Alex’s face lit up. “Was he–”

“Buying elections? Yes.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. It came as a mild shock. That’s not to say that he hadn’t suspected it to be true, rather, its confirmation came as a slight surprise.

Alex, however, looked mildly confused. “Wait– why are you still on his side?”

“I’m getting to that.” Hercules leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, looking between John and Alex. “I wanted to know if it was true.”

“But how’d you gain his trust?”

“Uh, long story. Anyways,” he gestured with his hands a bit as he spoke, “the point is, I know. I won’t ask _why_ you’re doing this since you’ve got _something_ going on _here_.” He gestured at the space around the two.

There was a moment of tense silence. Both Alexander and John knew what Hercules was going to say next.

“Alex, you can’t run next year.”

“And why’s that?” He shot back.

“You’ve _seen_ the video, don’t you get it? I’m warning you as a _friend_ , not because of who I’m working with–”

“Alright, fine.” Alex cut off. “So let’s say I _don’t_ run. Then what? George runs again, buys all his votes, and wins? Is that why you gained his trust in the first place? Do you _like_ seeing the Almighty ‘King’ thrive?”

“Well, no, but–”

“Then _why_ are you telling me to–”

“ _Alright_! Jesus _fucking_ Christ, that’s enough!” John cut into the conversation, silencing the two. Alexander, ever explosive, tried to retort, but John would have none of it. “Alex, _you_ need to tone it down. Herc’s right. You can’t just _run._ Slow down and _think_ for a minute here.” He made an attempt to stare down his friend, who just glared right back up at him.”That footage gets released, and we’re _both_ screwed. Don’t fly too close to the sun.”

John could see Alex’s jaw clench and unclench. Alex knew he was right. “Fine.”

“Good. We need to destroy that footage.”

Hercules, now leaning back against the back of the couch, shook his head. “Finding _all_ the copies they made won’t be easy. Burr has one on his phone, and on his laptop, and on a separate flash drive. And that’s just him.” He paused for a moment. “Not everyone has a copy, actually.”

“So we’re not totally fucked?” Alex asked, eyes hopeful.

“Maybe not. I’ll have to see what I can do.” With that, Hercules rose from his seat on the couch and started for the coat rack, unhanging his coat and pulling it on.

“That’s it?” Alex asked, following his friend out of the room, an equally confused John Laurens in tow.

“Time’s a-ticking, Alexander. I’m a busy man.” He turned to leave, but turned back, placed a heavy hand on Alex’s shoulder, and said, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t do anything stupid until I can get this sorted out.”

 

* * *

 

Alexander’s finger hovered over the tweet button. _Don’t do anything stupid._ He was reminded of Hercules, just as he was about to do something stupid.

Christmas passed without event, and New Years was similar in nature (although both John and Alexander drank perhaps a little too much and woke with a killer headache), and it was currently two days before the start of the new semester. January 20th.

Alex looked over his tweet again for any typos, or something that didn’t make sense. It read “Well, looks like I’m running!”, with a series of pictures of Alex turning in the papers he needed to into the office. The last picture was a thumbs up. Alex tagged his school at the last minute, for extra measure.

Hitting the tweet button, Alexander watched for the next few hours as it was retweeted by his school, and the amount of attention it received grew.

 

Around 7 PM came a sharp rapping of knuckles on the door of John and Alex’s shared apartment. John went to go answer it, since Alexander was working on something (as per usual), and Alex ceased his endless typing for a moment to listen in on the conversation John was having at the door.

“ _He did_ **_what_** _?!_ ” Alex could hear John say, the door slamming not a moment later.

Alex heard footsteps marching towards him, and he was met with the sight of a fuming John, and an annoyed Hercules. He swallowed nervously.

“Gentlemen,” was all that Alex could think of to say.

“Alex, didn’t I specifically tell you _not_ to do anything stupid?” came from Hercules, who practically loomed over Alex in his sitting position on the couch.

Alex glanced to his computer screen, made sure he saved the file he was working on, and then shut his laptop. “You might have mentioned it.”

“I _did_ tell you _specifically_ , ‘and don’t do anything stupid until I can get this all sorted out’, and what’s the _first_ thing you do?” Hercules pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and showed the screen to Alex: the tweet that he had posted earlier. It had a few hundred retweets and a bit more likes. The “King” must have retweeted it.

“This. You do this.”

John, who had not been on twitter all day long, peered over at the screen. It was almost exactly what he expected, surprisingly, but it did naught to ease his anger. “Alex, couldn’t you just _wait_?”

“John, I don’t think you understand.” Alex stood up here. He wasn’t too keen on being talked down to both physically and figuratively. “I had to apply _today_ or I would have been behind for, for who knows how long until you got this figured out!”

“And for what? So George and his team release this video when they get desperate? Is _that_ what you had in mind, really?”

“You’re not hearing me! I have this whole thing planned out in my head, _just you wait_ –”

“And when has that ever worked out, Alex?”

“It will, alright? You’ve just gotta _trust me_ on this.” Alex gestured out towards John, who had his arms crossed, a sour expression on his face.

John met Alex’s eyes for an infuriating moment, and saw a genuine sort of hope for John to take his side in this. John could see the sheer amount of intelligence that Alex’s eyes held in themselves. Maybe he really did have a plan that would work. But maybe he didn’t.

In any case, John turned his head away, glaring at a speck of something on the wall. Maybe from the whiskey they drank during new year’s. “I’ll trust you when I see your plan working, Alexander.” His tone held no malice. Rather, John sounded tired.

And with that, he started out of the room with not another look back at Alex.

“Wait, John–”

“I have some work to do, Alex.”

Alex felt his shoulders slump the slightest bit as he heard the door to John’s room open and then close. There was a long moment of silence as John’s words set in.

Alex heard something shuffle next to him. It was Hercules, awkwardly touching the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“I should probably get home.”

Alex looked up at his friend. “I...yeah.” He shifted his weight, dejection lacing his voice. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Hey,” Hercules began saying, opening the door to leave. “It’s not the end of the world. He’s still your friend, after all.”

“Yeah.” Alex straightened his back a bit. “I’ll see you later, Herc.”

As his friend left, Alex went back to the couch and picked up his laptop. Despite the already late hour, he made coffee in the kitchen and brought it back to his room, where he set up his laptop on a desk he bought from IKEA, plugged it in, and decided to work as much as he could during the two days leading up to the beginning of the new semester.

  
There was a lot to do, after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what'd I miss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is by far the longest. I do apologize for my near-month absence, but I'm not trying to fail any of my classes. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit over 6k words. My longest yet. Enjoy.  
> (also, you can come yell at me about whatever you want on my tumblr @unknownexploits)

With the new semester came an influx of students who hadn’t attended Columbia University during the first semester.

The new faces were hardly a shock. People came and went at Columbia, whether that be for financial reasons or personal interests, and it became a way of life for the students. Sometimes, these poor students were roped into some morning classes. A decision that some of them regretted far too late into the semester to change.

Alexander just so happened to sign up for a morning literature class, mostly to play into some of his personal interests, and because he could. The class, a relatively small one at that, started at 8 in the morning. It wasn’t very rare for Alex to be awake before 7. He usually woke up at 6:15 on weekdays, a habit from high school that never quite wore off.

On Tuesday, the 19th of January, Alex woke up at the usual time, devoured roughly three cups of coffee, took a shower, dried his hair, put it up, and put some clothes on all in the span of 45 minutes. In no particular order.

He glanced at the clock. It was just 7 AM. Alex opened the door to John’s room. John wasn’t awake yet. His first class was at noon. Jokingly blowing a kiss to John’s sleeping form, Alex decided to just gather his stuff and go to school. He might be able to talk to the professor in the meantime.

Unfortunately for him, the professor wasn't in, but at least the door was opened. Well, not opened in the traditional sense of the word, but not locked. Which meant that Alex didn't have to suffer out in the cold.

Situating himself in the third seat of the second row, he pulled his laptop from his bag and set it on the desk in front of him. It was from 2011, but it ran just fine on its own. He connected to the wifi and started a new document for the notes that he was bound to take, just as he noticed someone walk into the room. Glancing at the clock on his computer–7:30–he lifted his head to assess this newcomer, whether it be the professor or a student.

With a flash of recognition going through Alex’s mind, he realized that he knows this person. “Well, if it isn’t James Madison!”

The man in question looked up, saw Alex, and his gaze softened. The two had known each other for a few months last year when they worked on a project of sorts, and they had always got along pretty well. Disagreements between the two was seldom, save for the few instances that Alexander questioned James’ choice of friends.

“Alexander! I didn’t think you’d be taking this class.”

“And why’s that?” There was an amused glint in Alex’s eyes.

James was silent a moment, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that.”

Alex only shook his head at this and gestured for James to join him. As they began to catch up, some other students, some sleepy-eyed and some as awake as ever, began to file in, filling the room with the noise of young adults. Soon, the rows began to fill, students chattering here and there, talking about this and that and what they did over the break. Alex started to laugh at something that James said, and manages to get out half a sentence before he hears–

“ _James!_ ”

In an _unmistakable_ voice that Alex would recognize almost anytime and anyplace.

At that moment, James turned around from where he was standing in front of Alex, and rushed towards the door. He hugged _him_ , an old friend or something like that, and _he_ lays a kiss on both of James’s cheeks. A custom from where he’s been.

“Thomas!”

_Jefferson._

“Where’ve you been?”

“France! Haven’t you been followin’ my snapchat story? And to think you’d know where I’ve been all last semester.”

“Oh hush. I meant this morning.”

Jefferson shrugs. “Just here and there.”

 _Just here and there_ , Alex mocked in his head. He tuned out what they were saying, but found himself staring at just what the _hell_ Jefferson was wearing to class. That outfit looked like it cost more than Alex’s tuition fees. Alex didn’t even realize he was staring– _glaring_ –at Jefferson. No, not until he flashed his pearly whites at him. Grinning. Alex rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to his computer instead, just as the professor walked in. 8 AM sharp.

As Jefferson sat down directly behind him, Alex looked towards the ceiling, praying for at least a _little_ divine intervention.

 

When Alex got home that morning at around 9:30, he was pleasantly surprised to see that John was out of bed, nurturing a cup of coffee on the sofa. He glanced up from his phone when he heard the door open.

“Hey,” he greeted Alex, meeting his eyes. Alex felt some of his anger slip away. “How was that morning class?” He couldn't help but smile.

“Oh, it was great! Apparently we'll be diving into a few books, like, tomorrow.” John nodded, and Alex wondered if he was thinking about joining the class. He hoped so. But John wasn't a morning person all the time. Which meant that he had to deal with Jefferson _alone._ His smile slipped away at that thought.

“What's wrong?” John asked, ever so lovely.

“Jefferson’s in it.”

A beat passes.

“You’re kidding.”

“In my dreams.”

John set his mug of coffee aside, one hand over his mouth. Alex could see his eyes crinkle a little at the corners and his shoulders tremble just a bit.

“ _What_?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John said, voice an octave higher than usual.

Alex grabbed a pillow from the love seat in front of him and chucked it at his friend, who broke out into laughter upon being hit in the face.

“Fuck off! We’re not friends anymore.”

Once John’s giggles had subsided, and only a dumb smile played out on his lips, he shook his head.

“Man. That must suck.”

“Yeah, you don't know the half of it. Y’know what this guy had the _audacity_ to do?”

“What?”

“He fucking grinned right at me.”

John snorted. “Don't be fallin’ for him now.” Another pillow found its way to John’s face.

“ _Fuck off!_ ”

 

On the third day of the week, Alex figured out some things about Jefferson.

Number one: the guy is smart as hell. Apparently Jefferson knows a bit of Latin. Something that the entire class, minus James, was amazed to learn when he translated a sentence from one of their readings without batting an eye.

That smartness also extended to his knowledge of symbols. For example, in reading an excerpt from the novel _The Great Gatsby_ , a book that everyone in the class had read, Alex, as well as many others, was shocked to hear that Daisy running Gatsby’s gold brush through her hair was a euphemism for sex, or something having to do with sex. Who else would point this out? No other than Thomas Jefferson. (He also pointed out that in the middle of daisies lie a circle of gold – a symbol of money, corruption, if you will – meaning, Daisy herself may have been what led to the “Great” Gatsby’s downfall. Alex, of course, rolled his eyes at this pretentious form of analysis, but he had to admit that Jefferson did indeed have a point there.)

Number two: Jefferson could charm his way out of anything. _Seriously._ Anything. For starters, he was late to class a vast majority of the time, something that the professor (rather young, she was about 28, Alex guessed) wouldn’t tolerate. That is, of course, if it wasn’t Jefferson. Smiling, grinning, charming, Jefferson. A charm that could only be carefully raised in a true plutocrat. Instead of biting his head off, like she did with all of the other students, she merely gave him a smack on the hand and sent him to his seat. His seat, irritatingly behind Alex.

Not only that, either. Thomas Jefferson used that same charm on Alex.

And it worked.

Well, usually.

Alex wanted to say that he was good at telling when Jefferson was being nice and when he was trying to charm his way out of (or into) something. But the line between charming and nice was blurred for someone like Jefferson. So Alex always just assumed that he was being charming.

Especially when, earlier that day, Alex had no idea that the king from Greek mythology, Tantalus, had to do with the verb “tantalize”.

“Oh, come on now,” Jefferson practically _sneered_ behind him, “even my younger cousin knows that. And she’s fifteen.”

Alex could have ignored that. He could have let it slide. In one ear and out the other. Turn the other cheek. But for some reason, he was having _none_ of it. Alex had whipped his head around, and spoke without much thought.

“Oh shut up, Jefferson. Not everyone can grow up to be as privileged as _you_ , you _prick_.”

The whole class fell silent. Alex could begin to feel his palms sweat. But even so, he didn’t back down. He _couldn’t_ back down.

And then, Jefferson laughed. The sound pierced through the air like a lit candle would through darkness. It was indescribable. It only served to further annoy Alexander.

“I suppose you’re right, Hamilton,” was all that he’d said.

Alex could feel the urge to roll his eyes at the memory. _I suppose you’re right, Hamilton._ That was it. No rebuttal, no satirical comment—nothing. Which made Alex feel even weirder about what Jefferson had asked him after class was over.

“ _Alexander._ ”

Again, Alex could have ignored it. He _could have._ But he didn’t. He doesn’t ignore Jefferson. Instead, he stood his ground. Turned his head.

“What the hell do you want?” Alex could have made it sound meaner. He intended to. It didn’t.

“Relax. I have a peace offering,” Jefferson said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. Alex scoffed, but he said nothing in return. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking Jefferson up and down, sizing him up.

“Come to this café with me. I’ll be paying, of course.”

Alex hesitated. He looked Jefferson up and down again. He was smiling. His eyes were warm and his tone was genuine. Everything about him was inviting, from the way he seemed to tilt his chin down just the slightest bit, like he genuinely wanted Alex to say yes, to the way his brows were raised, one higher than the other. Perhaps in another life, Alex would have said yes.

He considered saying yes. What did he have to lose, anyways? He could just text John, tell him that he was going to be home a bit later. But there was something…charming about the way that Thomas was smiling.

 _Charming or kind?_ Alex wondered. It was better to stay on the safe side. “I, uh, I have plans. With my boyfriend,” he stuttered. He had no such plans.

Jefferson shrugged. He let his hands drop, and they found solace in his pockets. Mirroring Alexander. “Well, alright. Maybe some other time.”

Alex said nothing as he ducked out of the class. Why did he feel like he should regret saying no? After all. Jefferson wasn’t nice to _him._ To James, sure he was, but to Alex? It was unthinkable. Strange. After being such a dick to him, who was Jefferson to suddenly _smile_ at him like that? It pissed him off. The crunching snow under his shoes seemed to melt under his growing anger as he made his way back to the apartment, hands shoved in his pocket and scarf pulled up tight right below his nose. He hated the cold. It only annoyed him further. His nose was running, the tips of his ears red and freezing to the touch, and the soles of his feet were already freezing from the snow.

Alex didn’t get how people could _like_ the snow. It was white and it got everywhere. Like Europe. It was annoying as hell. That’s the only way to put it. It only fed the flames of his increasing anger – whether with himself or with Jefferson, he didn’t know. On top of that, he had to keep his eyes glued to the ground to watch for ice. Slipping on it one too many times did that. As he marched out of campus (thank _god_ there was no one there to throw snowballs at him, as it had happened before), he did his best to cover his nose with his scarf—John’s scarf? It smelled like him. Alex couldn’t wait to get home, defrost his feet in the microwave maybe, and tell John just _what_ a morning he was having.

It was absurd. Alex knew he should calm down, but when that thought surfaced, he squashed it under his foot like the snow he was currently stomping in. The sun was out, which only blinded Alex more than it should have, and it was beginning to melt the snow under his feet, making some parts of it into dirty sludge, tossed aside by some passing cars into the gutters of the streets. Snow wasn’t pretty. Neither was Jefferson. They both pissed him off.

Alex trudged up the steps to his apartment building, relishing in the heat that rushed out all at once. The door slammed behind him, and Alex was inside his shared apartment in a short amount of time.

John was there, scrolling through his laptop. Alex could smell coffee. Upon hearing the door shut, John looking up from the screen.

“Hey.”

Alex nodded at him. John felt a little like home. “Hey,” he echoed.

John’s eyes flicked back to his screen. “Anything interesting happen today?”

Alex let out a small laugh (if it could even be considered that; it was more like a huff). “Oh, you _bet_ something interesting happened.” He set down his bag somewhere and plopped down on the couch next to John, just in time to see him switch windows.

“I’m listening.”

“So you know how I told you Jefferson’s in my class?” Alex asked, and didn’t wait for John to answer before continuing on. “Well, _apparently_ , he decides ‘y’know what, I’m gonna make Alex suffer all the time.’” His poorly imitated accent made John laugh. “And he sits, like, _right behind me_ , so of course I have to hear all the shit coming out of his mouth. Which includes him saying shit like ‘Wow, Alex, even my younger whatever-the-fuck knew that.’” Alex rolled his eyes here, just in time to see John’s eyebrows raise.

“Did you take that shit from him?”

“I wasn’t having any of it! I called him a privileged prick in front of the whole class.” John took the moment that Alex was using to formulate his thoughts to shut his laptop and set it aside. “And he _laughs_ like we’re old friends, which, by my standards, would be insulting, and he has the nerve to tell me that I’m right in the most annoying way possible.

“But then, oh my god, he approaches me after class is dismissed and asked to take me to a cafe as a way to apologize to me.”

“What’d you say?”

“I almost said yes! He was smiling and everything, but it was different this time around. Like, charming. It might not have been _too_ bad--”

“ _Charming_?”

“In that psychopathic way!” Alex added quickly. “That is. He had me fooled. I said no.” _Not exactly_ , Alex’s mind reminded himself. _You said you had “plans”._

John just laughed a little and shook his head. Alex thought it sounded like bells, except...relieved? “Only you would describe someone as charming in a psychopathic way.”

“But am I wrong?”

John seemed to think for a moment, but Alex knew he wasn’t doing any thinking. “Nah.”

Alex looked at John with smug eyes. “When am I ever wrong?”

“Oh, I could name a few times…”

“That means I’m never wrong.” Alex was hit by a pillow that John was apparently cuddling this whole time.

“Let me just pull up your twitter.”

 

As the first week progressed, Alex could notice Jefferson becoming more...tolerable than he was before. It was strange.

John and Alex were on the same page. Alex was daily updating John on the happenings of his morning literature class. The way that Alex and Jefferson could talk about literature peacefully (relatively) was news to John. Such a thing made Alexander think. More specifically, it made Alex reconsider hating him.

They could agree on literature. Sure. In the discussions they had – that included James, seeing as he had invited Alex into his and Jefferson’s discussion, since Alex realized that he had no other friends in this class – they went in-depth, leaving no stone upturned in their analysis. In that regard, Jefferson and Alexander could relate to one another.

Alex could tell that John was less and less enthusiastic about hearing about Jefferson every day, and halfway through the second week, his friend had given him one or two annoyed looks. It didn’t stop Alex. Occasionally, he would see John set aside whatever was in his hands and actively engage in the previously one-sided conversation. In those moments, the two would speculate about Jefferson’s intentions. It was almost like gossip, but with more analysis. Those are the moments that Alex _lived_ for. They were, however, becoming more and more seldom.

On the Thursday of the second week, the class had about ten minutes less than usual to discuss the latest chapter they were assigned, which left Alexander with a lot more to say, and Jefferson willing to hear such thoughts.

“Say,” he said over the sound of students shuffling out of the room, catching the attention of both Alex and James. “Why don’t y’all come with me to this nice little French café that opened up just last year?”

James shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have plans at ten.” He took a glance at his watch. Alex noticed it was the kind that had multiple functions for telling time, the day, and the date. Expensive. “In fact, I should probably get going now.”

Thomas merely shrugged. “No water under the bridge.”

James slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll see y’all.”

“Bye now,” he said, and Alex gave a small wave. Jefferson waited until his friend was out the door before he turned to Alex. “So?”

Alex almost forgot what his original question was. It took him a moment to answer. He should say no. He should. But in saying no, he would go back home to John, who would undoubtedly be annoyed with Alex for, for _something._ What did he have to lose in going?

“I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Excellent.” Jefferson smiled, all warmth and no contempt. Alex had to look twice. “Shall we?” Jefferson bent his elbow and held it out to Alex, jokingly, like some sort of country gentleman. Alex only rolled his eyes. What was he doing?

 

Something that Alex learned on his morning out was that Thomas Jefferson had a nice car. Well, “nice” is objective. Jefferson had a Porsche. It was a deep blue (according to Jefferson), and most definitely more expensive than Alex's entire college tuition. Its sleek, off-white interior had this newness to it, almost like this car had been sitting in a garage since it was purchased (which, admittedly, wouldn't be difficult to believe), and Jefferson told Alex that if he spilled _anything_ on his seats, he'd have his head. Which Alex heeded lightly.

The café itself, as promised, was French. Alex expected it to be a Starbucks or something like that. He only had about ten bucks with him. The two were seated right away, and their waiter took their order. Alex’s black coffee and Jefferson’s drink – the _whatchamacallit_ with some silly name – came to them soon after. Service was phenomenal. And Alex’s coffee smelled _really_ good.

“So, Jefferson–” Alex began, getting right to business.

“Thomas.”

Alex blinked. “What?”

“Call me Thomas,” he insisted. “I’m sure we’re close enough for that.” He had a point. Alex hadn’t said anything when he used his first name.

“Oh, sure, _Jefferson_ ,” Alex responded, a smug look in his eyes.

He sighed. “Alexander.” Alex could practically _feel_ his annoyance.

“Yes, Jefferson?” He replied innocently.

There was a pause. Alex could feel Thomas’s eyes boring into him, but he kept his eyes stubbornly glued to his cup of coffee. He idly wondered if it was too hot to drink. Suddenly, Thomas laughed, and Alexander looked up just in time to see him rolling his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

For a moment, they sat there across each other, saying nothing. A fading smirk was playing on Alex’s lips, and Thomas was smiling curiously at Alex. They had a moment of, of something. Alex didn’t know what to call it. Whatever it was, it was gone as soon as it came as soon as one of them opened their mouth.

It was about 11 AM when Alex got back to the apartment, about an hour and a half later than he usually got home. John wasn’t in the living room when he opened the door.

“ _Alex?_ ” Came John’s voice from the hallway. He emerged a second later, looking slightly disheveled and a little anxious.

“Hey,” Alex greeted casually.

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me. Where the _hell_ were you?” When Alex didn’t answer immediately, he went on. “I texted you over an hour ago.”

“You did?” Alex checked his phone. “You did.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, John.” Alex made an excuse out of thin air. “Washington asked me to help him with grading freshmen papers. I left my phone on silent.” No such thing had occurred. Alex knew it, John probably knew it.

“And you didn’t bother to text me or anything?” They stood there in tense silence. Truthfully, Alex _did_ feel his phone vibrate sometime around ten. He just didn’t bother to check it. And now, he didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t even think about John that much the whole time he was with Jefferson.

But John only shrugged. “Whatever.” He bent down and grabbed his bag, smoothing his hair back as he did so. “I’m going to class.” Alex glanced at the clock. It was about twenty minutes earlier than John would normally leave, but he said nothing as his roommate brushed past him on his way towards the door.

“Next time,” John said, door half opened. “Text me so I know that you’re not out there somewhere dead in a ditch.”

John slammed the door on his way out.

 

Alex continued his meetings with Thomas. He was sure to always text John to tell him that he wouldn’t be home until later. It was always a different excuse. “Oh, I’m out with Eliza”, “Professor Washington asked me for some help with things”, or “I’ll be prepping for the student presidential race in the library.” Sooner or later, John would know that Alex was lying. With Alex’s luck, it would be sooner rather than later.

What did it matter to Alex if John knew he was hanging out with Thomas, anyways? It wouldn’t _change_ anything between them, necessarily. Alex only wanted to prevent that “why the change of heart?” conversation that they were bound to have. Alex had less time in the morning to talk _chisme_ with John. It usually had to wait until they went to lunch together (“To keep up appearances, of course,” Alex had insisted when they first came out as a “couple”).

Still, Alex tried his best to make up with John. The first day that Alex came home late (making John worried sick, he later realized), John skipped out on their daily lunch together. It threw Alex out of balance. When Alex came home that night, he brought some dinner from John’s favorite sushi place. It was a peace offering of sorts. Alex hated fighting with John. He apologized right away.

It must have worked, even if just a little bit, because the day after, John held less resentment for Alex’s actions in the morning.

Alex could tell that John expected him home later in the morning after a week. He stopped replying to his texts. Alex told himself that he was fine with that. His own excuses became less diverse. After about the third day, Alex just told John that he would be home later. No alibi.

This went on. It became just a part of the routine. Alex would walk to school in the mornings, spend an hour or so at that nice cafe, and then walk back to the apartment. It wasn’t until the third week of the semester, arguably the coldest one as of yet, that this routine was slightly altered.

Alexander and Thomas had stepped out of the warm cafe, greeted by a harsh gust of piercing cold wind. It made Alex shiver. He swore that he could feel the cold seep through his (admittedly thin) coat and into his bones. He was _not_ looking forward to walking home in this.

“You look like you could use a ride home,” came from Thomas, right next to him.

Alex scowled. “I’m fine. I just need– I need to get used to it.”

Thomas put a hand on his hip and raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I’m sure. You fixin’ to get sick or something?”

“No,” he mumbled into the scarf he had just pulled over his nose.

“I didn’t think so. Now c’mon. I’ll put the heat on.”

Begrudgingly, Alex got into Thomas’s car. The seats were freezing.

“Here.” Thomas handed Alexander his phone. An iPhone 6s. “Type in your address.”

A navigation app was pulled up. He did what he was told, and it was only when he was handing the phone back did he have the thought to give Thomas his number. He nearly rolled his eyes at the thought.

There was something comforting about being in Thomas’s Porsche. It could be the smoothness of its ride or the presence of the man who owned it himself. Whatever it was, Alex relaxed back into the seat, allowing the heater of the car to protect him from the harsh cold that could seep through almost anything. The car ride was significantly shorter than Alex thought it would be.

“We’re here,” Thomas announced, snapping Alex out of his slight reverie.

Alex glanced out the window and was met with the sight of the double doors of his apartment building. He looked back at Thomas, who was smiling slightly at him. The car suddenly felt too hot. “I, uh, thanks for the ride,” he said, scrambling to get the door opened. The sharp coolness of the outside air would clear his mind.

“Hold on for a moment.” Alex was halfway out of the door. Thomas was scribbling something down on a scrap of paper.

“What?”

Thomas handed him the paper. “My number.” He then added, as an afterthought, “Just in case.”

Alex slowly took it from him. He glanced it over. Stuffed it in his pocket. “Right. See you.” Alex caught some curtains moving from the window of one of the apartments. He hurried inside the building. The last thing he wanted was for someone to see him getting out of Thomas Jefferson's car.

His wishes were unheeded by fate it seemed, as by the time Alex had gotten upstairs and into his apartment, John was waiting in the living room.

“Who was that?” He asked, but Alex had a feeling that John knew.

“Who was who?”

“The person that dropped you off. Blue Porsche.” Alex didn't answer. He wracked his mind for someone, _anyone_ he knew that had that same car.

“Was that Jefferson?” John asked, eyebrows furrowed. He knew.

Alex could feel his mood sour, just a bit. He didn't answer, instead opting for walking towards his room to put his stuff down, maybe take off his shoes.

John followed him. “Alex, _was_ that Jefferson?”

“So what if it was?” Alex snapped, turning towards John. “Are you gonna start policing me now?”

John took a step back. “I don't get why you're getting so fucking _defensive_ over nothing.”

“I don't get why you're acting like some jealous lover. We're not even dating.”

“Is there something you want to _tell me_ , Alex?” John used his superior height to tower over Alex.

Alex glared up at him. “I have nothing to say.”

“Yeah, well I do. Jefferson's bad news.”

“I _know_ that,” Alex grumbled, kicking his shoes off like they had offended him.

“Then _why_ are you letting him give you a ride home? You could’ve _called_ me or something to come get you if it was too cold–”

“I don’t know, reasons?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Alex–”

“ _I don’t know!_ Okay? I don’t know _why_ I’m even _talking_ to him, but if you absolutely _need_ to know _every single aspect_ of what I do on my free time, this was the first time I hung out with him after class.” A lie. He didn’t know why he felt the need to lie to his John. “And y’know, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that maybe, _just maybe_ , someone’s political beliefs doesn’t dictate who they are as a person?”

John looked bewildered. Alex felt like he fucked up. Majorly. He felt his palms starting to sweat with slight nervousness.

“And yeah,” he continued on, even though his entire being was yelling at him to shut the fuck up, to apologize right here and cause less damage to their already tense relationship. “We can hate Tho— _Jefferson’s_ political beliefs all we want, but that doesn’t change the fact that, _if you got to know him_ , he’s actually kind of tolerable and really smart, and, and he’s _charming_ and has this southern sweetness to him – like you – and it’s honestly no wonder Angelica and Gilbert like him because, because—” Alex was pacing the room at this point, completely forgetting the point he was trying to get across and trying his hardest not to feel John’s judging eyes on him. “And–”

“ _Alex_ ,” John cut in, tone accusatory, “are you _crushing_ on him?”

“What?! _No!_ ”

“Sure seems like it.”

“Fuck off, John, I’m not even _interested_ in anyone right now!” Alex didn’t know why that felt like a lie. He wasn’t, right?

John fell silent. His expression was unreadable. “Whatever, Alex. Forget I even tried to tell you anything.”

The next moment, John was gone. Alex didn’t know whether to count that as a win or a loss.

 

The next day was colder than the one previous, Alex realized with a start soon after he left his apartment building. It was snowing.

Which meant that whatever melted during the day was already frozen.

Which, of course, translated into Alex slipping on some ice on campus because of _course_ the world would be against him at all times.

He heard a snicker behind him. It was Thomas. Alex glared up at him.

“What?”

“D’you need a little help there, princess?”

Alex huffed and got up as quickly as he could, hissing as his bare fingers burned from the coldness of the ground. He forgot to put gloves on this morning. “Don’t call me that,” he grumbled.

Thomas shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Why’re you here so early, anyways?”

Another shrug. “I just got up early, I suppose.”

They stood there in silence for a moment more. A shiver went up Alex’s spine.

“I’m going to class,” he said, heading in the direction he was originally going in before he slipped.

“I’ll join you in a moment,” Thomas claimed. Alex didn’t wait up for him.

 

After class, the two went on their usual routine. Thomas drove them to the cafe, Alex ordered a simple black coffee, Thomas ordered a sugary drink. Alex wouldn’t admit it, but routine was nice.

Except for the fact that John wasn’t there when he got back to the apartment.

It was fine, he told himself. John probably had some other plans. Plans that must have extended through their usual lunch together. Alex got a text from him saying that he had things to do. That was fine. Alex could understand that.

He only accepted the fact that John was avoiding him when he got home that night, and John, watching Netflix on the TV, didn’t say “hi”.

“Hey, John,” Alex greeted tentatively, like a child would approach their parents after an argument.

“What.” John’s tone was flat. He didn’t even look away from the screen.

Alex took a steadying breath. Moment of truth. He swallowed his pride, just for a moment. “I’m sorry. About yesterday.”

He half turned towards Alex. The words _Damn right you’re sorry_ stuck in John’s throat. Instead, he just sighed. “It’s fine,” he said rather tiredly. He didn’t know what else to say. He heard Alex shift his weight behind the sofa. He sensed that Alex had more to say.

“I’m also, uh, hanging with, uh, Jefferson. Tomorrow night.”

John could hear Alex bounce on the balls of his feet. Nervous habit. “Okay,” he said slowly, “why are you telling me this?”

Alex bit the inside of his cheek. “So you wouldn't get. Worried. Or something.”

“Well, Alex, as you snobbishly said, and I snobbishly repeat: we're not even dating.”

Ouch. Clearly John had read _The Great Gatsby._

“Right.” Alex nodded. “Right. We’re not.”

He left the room. He didn’t know why that bummed him out.

 

The next night, Alex came home late. Later than he should have. He stumbled up the steps. Jammed the key into the keyhole. Ended up hitting the door. Alex didn't know what time it was. It could have been 11. It probably was. All he knew was that the cab that Thomas Jefferson called took a while to get to his apartment, and even then, the driver was grumbling about some drunk kids.

Thomas Jefferson’s place. It was nice. Nice in that modern, “I spend thousands of dollars on rent” way. It was something just short of a penthouse. Alex only got the chance to look at it for about five minutes before Thomas shoved a drink in his hand – a glass of brilliantly dark red wine. He caught a glimpse of the bottle in a bucket of ice: _Château Haut-Batailley._ It sounded vaguely familiar, and _very_ French.

Alex lasted about two glasses before he started to feel its effects. He was such a lightweight. Half the bottle was gone in thirty minutes. Alex wasn’t about to let Thomas out-drink him.

A mistake, it seemed. Alex was there because—well, actually he didn’t know. Thomas asked him to come over so that Alex could try some of the wine he was supposedly “missing out on.” And Alex said yes. So he came over around 8.  Was this just some plan to get Alex drunk for the hell of it? _That conniving little bastard_ , Alex couldn’t help but think.

Well. Not “little.” Thomas was at least a head taller than Alex. Alex wondered, for a brief moment through his alcohol-hazed mind, what _other_ parts could be the opposite of little.

Alex shook his head. He needed to concentrate on getting his apartment door open. Maybe he was using the wrong key? Unlikely. Also unlikely that he paid the cab driver. Maybe Thomas did. It was part of that southern sweetness he had.

Southern sweetness. Sweetness down south. Alex snickered at his own thoughts. What was he doing again?

Oh right. Opening the door.

Resolutely shoving the key in the keyhole – the right way this time – the lock clicked and the door opened. He let out a sound of victory, trying as best he could to step inside quietly. The lights were on. Why were they on? John should be asleep. It was–what was it? Thursday? No, it was Saturday. Alex didn’t see Thomas’s charming little face all day. John should be asleep anyways. It was, like, 12.

“Wow,” Alex swears he hears in front of him. There’s a hallway there. He looks. It’s John. His sweet, precious John. “You couldn’t bother to call, could you?”

John was getting closer, closer to him, to his face. It felt vaguely like home. “Hi,” Alex breathed out.

“You reek like wine.”

Alex couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“Two. In the morning.”

Oh.

_Oh._

John was mad. He was with Thomas for six hours. _Six._

“Crazy,” was the only thing he could think to say. “Why-why are you up?”

“I was waiting for _your_ dumb ass to get home. What the hell were you _thinking_?”

“Relax, John, dear. Relax. I’m fine. I’m here. I got a cab. Thomas paid for it. I think.”

“ _Thomas_?” He asked in bewilderment.

“Jefferson? C’mon, we’ve talked ‘bout him all the time. He’s...he’s not a total dickshit.” Alex couldn’t help but snicker. “Dickshit,” he muttered. “I meant dipshit. But same thing.” John didn’t look like he found it funny. Alex continued anyways. “He’s nice. And smart. Nice-smart. _Nart._ He gave me some of his wine. He said to me, ‘Alex, this is my favorite, _Château Haut-Batailley._ ’ The rest is a blur to me. I wasn’t paying attention. He was tellin’ me some things about the history of the company.

“See, he’s funny. He’s super smart, right? He’s apparently minoring in American history. Which makes his political beliefs make no sense because the conservative presidents were always shit at their jobs? And it’s funny because, because Thomas, dear Tommy, he’s a conservative. And conservatives are bad at their jobs. But I guess that’s okay for Thomas because he’s hot enough to get away with it. Like. What’s his face. Paul Ryan. Yeah.”

Somehow, somewhere, Alex had leaned forward just enough so that his face was buried in John’s chest. He leaned heavily on his friend. His eyes were closed. There was a pleasant buzz going through his body. It was nice. Better than the snow outside.

“Alex, I don’t wanna hear it.” John grabbed Alex’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length. Alex’s eyes were screwed shut, and he let out a whine. “I’m going to sleep.” He was suddenly left to stand on his own when John’s strong hands (that he loved dearly) let go of his arms.

“By the way, I’m going to South Carolina for a week.”

_What._

That sobered him up real quick. It was like he snapped back to reality.

“You’re _what_?” He took a moment to process it. “Why?”

John shrugged. “Reasons.”

It took Alex a moment to remember where he heard that same excuse used, before he realized that, _oh shit,_ **_I_ ** _said that._

“John Laurens, don’t you _dare_ use that excuse on me–”

A door slammed. It was John’s door. Alex didn’t notice him walk away.

 

John was gone the next day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is gone. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School let out last week, so I hope that means more frequent updates in the future?

Alex’s head was _pounding._

What had he done last night? He remembered going to Thomas’s house, having a few laughs and wines, and then…

_Then what?_

Alex jolted up with a start. He was in his own room. Fully clothed. _Good_ , he thought through the pounding in his head. At least he hadn’t done _something._

He sunk back down onto the bed. What had he _done_ last night? Let’s see...he went to Thomas’s apartment, had a few wines, got a cab home(?) and then...the rest is fuzzy. He remembered having a conversation with John.

Speaking of John, where was he? A glance to the clock mounted on his wall told him that it was 11 AM on a Sunday, but the apartment was dead silent. Usually, John would have knocked or left a glass of water on Alex’s desk by now. Something told Alex that John wasn’t even in the apartment. Maybe he went out for breakfast and left a note for Alex on the table. Yeah.

 _Yeah. That must be it._ He somehow managed to haul himself out of bed, first pouring himself a cup of water in the kitchen, then looking for the very note that _had_ to be there. And there was one. It was taped to the fridge. Alex had to squint to read John’s messy writing. It looked like it was written last minute, like an afterthought.

 

_Alex,_

_Left this morning. Be back next Monday night._

_-J. Laurens._

 

Oh.

Right.

John was going to _South Carolina._

He downed his glass of water and slammed it on the counter, wincing at the harsh noise it made. He leaned heavily on the counter with his hands, hunched over. _That’s_ why John didn’t leave him a glass of water or a plate of breakfast on the table. He was probably in his home state by now. It confused the _hell_ out of Alex. What was so appealing about South Carolina? Didn’t John _dread_ going there?

On impulse, Alex marched back to his room, picked up his phone -- almost dead, he noticed -- and shot a text at John.

 

**To: My Dear Laurens**

**11:11 AM**

**what’s in sc anyways?**

 

He hastily brought his charger to the kitchen and plugged his phone in to charge. A flight from the JFK Airport to the Charleston Airport took like, what, two hours? And knowing John, he probably left super early. So he _must_ be there by now.

His suspicions were confirmed as soon as his phone chimed with a new text from John. Alex had the ringer set to a different one for him.

 

**From: My Dear Laurens**

**11:13 AM**

**An old friend.**

 

Ouch. Proper punctuation _and_ capitalization? John must be _pissed_ at Alex.

Never mind that, who could that old friend be? It probably wasn’t anyone that Alex knew. But it still couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

 

**To: My Dear Laurens**

**11:14 AM**

**okay but who is it**

 

Alex must have looked over the text at least three times before sending it. It wasn’t too...cold, was it? A part of Alex’s pounding head told him that he shouldn’t care whether it was or not. But the other part told him he should, because he fucked this one up by hanging out with someone they’re both supposed to _hate_ (justifiably so, but Alex found himself hating Thomas less and less with each day), and by putting off his best friend like some sort of asshole.

But then again, it was kind of a dick move for John to just up and _leave_ without telling Alex at least a day beforehand. Alex almost considered not sending the message at all. Why should he care about what John’s doing in South Carolina, anyways?

 

**From: My Dear Laurens**

**11:17 AM**

**Francis. Someone I met in Geneva. He lives in SC.**

 

Geneva. Alex vaguely remembered something John told him about his high school years in the city. And in that, there was a Francis.

What was his last name? Kinley? Kinsley? Kin-dickley? Kin-something. Alex couldn’t remember off the top of his pounding head. All he knew was that it was this guy that assured John that who he was was normal. Alex sort of admired the guy for it, but also felt a twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t necessarily a given that something hadn’t happened in their shared dorm room for the years they spent together.

Nevertheless, Alex set aside his phone for the moment, concentrating on getting a few painkillers into his system. The thoughts he had of John and his friend doing _things_ in their dorm room lingered in his mind.

He shared a dorm with John for an entire year. Nothing happened. Why was Alex getting jealous? It’s not like anything would have happened between him and John, anyways. _Now why are you upset?_ someone seemed to ask him.

He shouldn’t be. He reached for his phone as a distraction, allowing himself to think for a bit. So John went to South Carolina. He went to go see an old friend. Francis Kinneth. Kingston. Kinder. Whatever his last name was. Okay. He didn’t tell Alex that he was going until the night previous (that morning?), so Alex could safely assume that this was a last-minute sort of thing. Unless it wasn’t. Maybe Alex was the only one he hadn’t told. Alright, fine.

But what if he wasn’t? What about Henry Laurens? Alex found his fingers typing away on his phone before he could put much thought into it.

 

**To: My Dear Laurens**

**11:23 AM**

**you didn’t tell your dad, did you?**

 

He looked back at John’s contact name in his phone. _My Dear Laurens._ He’d have to change that sometime soon. It’s not like they were dating or anything like that. Who was going to go through his phone, anyways?

The pain medicine that Alex took must have kicked in. The pounding in his head wasn’t as bad anymore. It allowed him to think a bit more.

Alex took a moment to reread John’s note. _Be back next Monday night._ He slid over the tiled floor with his socks to the calendar, hanging on the wall next to a window by the sink. It was Sunday, the 7th of February. Which made _next Monday night_ the 15th.

Why next Monday night? Why not next _Sunday_ night? Why would John want to miss a whole week of school _plus_ an extra day? It didn’t make sense. Why _not_ Sunday--

_Oh._

Next Sunday was Valentine’s day.

_Valentine’s day._

As in, their fake one year anniversary.

The realization hit Alex with a force so sudden that it weighed down on his shoulders. He felt himself slouching. _That’s_ why John didn’t want to be there. He wanted to spend his Valentine’s day with his precious _Francis Kinleyderson_ or whatever his last name was. Not Alex. It’d look suspicious if they weren’t together. One year is a _really_ long time for a “relationship.” It would, without a doubt, raise a few questions for the _both_ of them.

He had time to figure out an excuse. It was fine.

A new issue for Alexander arose from thin air. Why did he feel so disheartened at the fact that John would be missing their “anniversary”? It wasn’t the end of the world. Sure, they weren’t on the _best_ of terms, but they were still friends. This fake relationship thing was getting increasingly stressful for Alex. He was starting to think--to think that it was more difficult for Alex to come up with explanations as to why he enjoys doing couply things with John.

Holding his hand on the car ride to the Charleston Airport back in mid-December. Saying “You love me” and then “I know” when John said “In your dreams.” The sudden panic that Alex felt when questioned. (The latter was more of an impulse, but the former was to assert the idea that John and Alex were truly, in fact, dating. An excuse.)

Take the night that John and Alex returned from South Carolina. Alex slipping his hand into John’s. He looked worn-out. Tired. Maybe even a little lost. He stopped bantering with his friends in the front seats long enough to make sure that John was okay. He needed to ask twice. He convinced himself it was okay for him to grab John’s hand if it was all for show. Because _this_ is all a play. Just make believe. Is that not what life is? A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Or something like that. In the end, it probably wouldn’t matter whether John and Alex were dating or not. All that matters is that they _existed._ Alex knew, in his mind, that it didn’t _really_ matter at the end of the day. Or did it? That is up to the eye of the beholder.

Even the Christmas party kiss they had back in December. Alex remembered his friends chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”, not knowing that cameras were on and ready until he saw the photos the next day on Facebook. But that didn’t matter. The more publicity, the better, he supposed. In the moment, he couldn’t tear his gaze from John. The chanting only served to stoke the growing flame of desire within the pit of Alex’s stomach. He needed to kiss John like he needed to breathe. It’s what drew him forward, what made him make the first move and press his lips to John’s. The perfect way that John’s hands molded to Alex’s hips, almost possessively, as they kissed. The exhilarating feeling that coursed through him as he pulled John down a hallway and into a room, ready for more of _that._

But then, the reality of things slipped into Alex’s mind. They weren’t dating. They couldn’t kiss in private like that. He started babbling halfway through the hallway. _Wow, I can’t believe we just did that. In front of everyone! I bet your dad’ll believe that you’re gay after he sees that you’ve been kissing_ boys _under the mistletoe. Well, one boy. Same thing. I know we_ just _did that, but, well, you see, there’s just a small thing I’m curious about._ Alex wasn’t even sure John was listening all the way through. He probably wasn’t. That’s okay. Alex didn’t even know what he was saying the whole time.

He felt the need to verbally reaffirm the fact that they weren’t dating. It was almost like some outside force was forcing him to say it, just to be safe, so that one of them wouldn’t fall in love with the other. What a mess that would be.

But, thinking back, their kiss under the mistletoe didn’t seem anything like an act. Even now, as Alex gently touched his lips at the memory, he almost wished for another chance for that to happen. He _longed_ to feel John’s lips against his, the feeling of his smooth, toned body against his softer frame. Alex thought himself crazy to assume that John would want the same.

No, his John is probably out with Francis _Kinlanthropist_ doing who knows what (preferably not each other). Alex lips turned down into a frown. He felt irrationally angry about this guy that he’s barely heard about hanging out with John down in South Carolina. It made him angrily brew a new pot of coffee, just so he would have something to do with his hands. It prevented him from breaking anything.

But _why_ was he angry? It wasn’t like he was actually _in love_ with John.

...Right?

No! No, of course he wasn’t! He wasn’t interested in _anybody._ Whether that be John Laurens or Thomas Jefferson or, goddammit, Eliza Schuyler. Three of the most generally attractive people he knows. No, he _couldn’t_ be in love with John Laurens and the sketchbook full of realistic pencil sketches that he keeps tucked away in his desk and every single one of his freckles and the curls that he somehow manages to keep in check with a hair tie and his taste in music and his style and everything that makes John, _John_ because-- _because, goddammit_ he just _couldn’t_ be. He shook his head vigorously. _No, no way am_ I _in love with John Laurens._ He tried to erase that thought out of his head _forever._ It was just, just _impossible. Unimaginable._

 _But. But what if I am?_ A small voice in the back of Alex’s mind asked. He shushed every other thought and doubt he has so that he may hear it speak. Would that be so bad? _Of course it would be!_ Another part of his mind answers. John doesn’t feel the same.

Or does he? After all, it was John who said _In fact, dad, I actually happen to have a boyfriend. His name? Uh. It’s…Alex. His name is Alexander Hamilton._ John roped Alex into this whole ordeal. And Alex dove right in without hesitation.

But that begs the question: Did Alex dive in headfirst because he felt _that_ way about John back then? Or was he looking for some sort of adventure? Alex didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if that scared him or if that relieved him. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of that wretched question. Instead, he reached for his phone. He had a message from John.

 

**From: My Dear Laurens**

**11:27 AM**

**Do you think I have a death wish or something?**

 

What had Alex sent again? Oh, right. _you didn’t tell your dad, did you?_ In hindsight, it was a silly question.

  


On Monday, the 8th of February, Alex trudged to school, John-less and miserable. The thought that he may be in love with his best friend tormented him all night. He hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. The fact that the scarf he wrapped around half his face smelled like John didn’t help, either. He needed to invest in his own scarves.

Alex got to class five minutes late. He may have left on time and everything, but he failed to check how the morning traffic was going to be on his phone. Morning traffic turned out to be _literal hell._ They were doing work on the _sidewalks_ for some reason, forcing Alex to go _around_ the construction, taking him in the opposite direction of the University until he could circle back around. So Alex was five minutes late to class. The professor gave him hell for it. Lectured him on the importance of coming in _on time_ and blah, blah, blah, Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes, especially as he heard a snicker come from the third seat of the third row.

Thomas’s seat.

Speaking of Thomas, Alex broke routine. He told Thomas that he had _stuff_ to do directly after class. They didn’t go to the cafe.

The same thing happened the next day. And the next. And the next. Until Friday, the 12th of February. Thomas confronted him before class.

“Alright, what the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

Alex looked up from his computer. Thomas’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking down his _pretty little nose_ at Alex.

“What do you mean?” He replied, looking sharply up at the other man.

“You know damn well what I mean. Why are you so…” Thomas gestured vaguely at Alex. “Emo.”

Alex could have laughed. _Emo?_ Really? _That’s_ what Thomas was getting out of that? “‘S not a polite thing to say, _Jefferson._ ”

“And what d’you know about manners?”

“I wasn’t raised in a barn, like _some_ people I know.”

Thomas looked as though Alex had just insulted his entire family tree. Which, in a way, he did. “Now hold on a moment here, just because we _had_ a barn on the farm _doesn't mean–_ ”

“It was a joke. Humor. Something you don't have. What do you want?”

“You're gonna come back to my apartment tonight, we're gonna have a few drinks, and you're gonna tell me just what the _hell's_ gotten into you.” There was no room for argument. “Got it?”

“Yeah, what if I _don't_ , Jefferson?” There was a naturally defiant glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I think you will. Come over at eight.”

“Can't. I'm working.”

“You? You have a job?”

“Yeah. In the law library.”

“Since when?”

“Since I got hired.”

Thomas looked like he wanted to deck Alex. Pop a solid one in his jaw. Alex only grinned. He got the job sometime over winter break after being fired for “misconduct” at a previous job. Whatever that meant. All he did was get into an argument with a customer. Boo hoo. So sue him. The library was better to work in anyways. He could work on other things if there was nothing else for him to do.

“Right.” Thomas shrugged. “Maybe some other time.”

Something else lingered in the air, along with Thomas’s presence. Like…an invitation. Thomas turned to walk away, a second too late.

“Hold on,” Alex stopped him mid step. What was he _doing_? “I’m free tomorrow after eight.” He tore off a piece of paper from his notebook, scribbling his number down. He handed it off to Thomas. “Text me the address.” It was an excuse for Alex to give him his number. He knew it. Thomas knew it. It went unsaid.

“Alright,” Thomas said, slipping the slip of paper into his pocket. He looked back at Alex with a glint in his eyes that Alex couldn’t quite comprehend. Whatever it was, it was gone as soon as he blinked. “So, eight tomorrow night?”

“Yeah.”

 

Almost too quickly, the next day came and went, and the blanket of darkness that surrounded the city that never sleeps had settled around the area. Not a star could be seen beyond the streetlights of the city.

Alex got off work at 7 PM. It was perfect. Just enough time for Alex to take a quick shower, dry his hair as best he could, and dress. He pulled on a dull reddish orange button up shirt that he didn’t know he had hidden away in the back of his closet, along with a pair of jeans that happened to fit him _very_ well. He had managed to save enough money to buy a nice black trench coat for himself. He had to hand it to himself -- he looked _good._ No question about it.

Deciding to skip the cologne, as that would be too excessive, Alex called a cab to pick him up. As much as he _loooved_ the snow and the cold, he’d rather not freeze to death walking across the city.

He buzzed at the door to Thomas’s apartment building -- something that was, admittedly, just short of a penthouse -- at 8 PM sharp. He was let in a minute later, assaulted by a kiss to both cheeks.

“Alexander! Come on in, I’ll pour you a drink.”

Thomas was wearing cologne. Along with a dark blue button up shirt, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The image attacked his senses with a force so sudden that he had to take a moment before entering. He told himself this was just like the last time he was there. They would drink, joke, and Alex would go home. That's all.

He sat down at the bar in Thomas’s kitchen, frowning as he brought out two wine glasses.

“Do you have, like, anything that's _not_ wine? Something that won't give me a hell of a hangover for the next _century_? Like whiskey, or something?”

Thomas snorted with laughter, the bastard. “You? Whiskey?” Alex only gave him a look. “Alright, alright. Relax.” He put one of the glasses back, substituting it for a shot glass. He began to rummage through his liquor cabinet. Alex saw an _abundance_ of wine bottles. It was like seeing hell and coming out unscathed.

Thomas was running his mouth. “I think I do have one, but it might be just a little bit old. See, I got it back south in western Pennsylvania. Cost me a fortune, too. They raised the tax on the damn thing.” Alex saw him pull out a bottle of amber liquid. “ _Et voilà_!”

He settled down on the opposite side of the bar where Alex sat. Poured three shots into a bigger glass. Popped three ice cubes into it. “ _Une verre de whisky pour le monsieur_.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “ _Merci_ ,” he said, mostly to humor him.

He caught a glimpse of a clock mounted on a wall. It was oval shaped, had a black rim, and a parchment backing. There were words written underneath the 12 that Alex couldn’t quite make out from his position at the bar. It was 8:10.

The next time he looked at that clock, it was already past 9. A glance to the clock would say that it was 9:44. Alex was _already_ intoxicated. How many of those three shot glasses has he had? Two? Three? Maybe this was his third one. He set it aside. He didn’t think he was too drunk, but he _definitely_ wouldn’t risk driving a car. At least he was somewhat less drunk than he had been the week previous.

“So,” came from Thomas, sitting on the couch across from Alex. They had moved to the living room a few minutes earlier. It was “more comfortable” or something like that. “What’s been botherin’ you, Alex?”

Bothering him? Oh, right. Alex looked up from the drink he had set down on the coffee table. “John left for South Carolina.”

A twitch of the eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“He just. Left.”

“When?”

“Last Saturday. Or, no. Sunday. Sunday morning.”

“He just up and left? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Alex furrowed his brows. He stared hard at a thread coming loose from the carpeting. “We had an argument after I got home or something. I don’t remember.”

“Goodness. I’m sorry I kept you that long.” Alex looked up at Thomas. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to make sure he was being genuine. Or maybe just for the sake of looking.

In any case, Alex waved him off. “It’s fine.”

“Did he say why?” Thomas asked, getting up to pour himself another glass of wine.

Was that genuine curiosity? Or did Thomas want something from him?

“Yeah,” Alex said, shifting in his seat. “He’s seeing an old friend.”

An old friend. Yeah. Okay. John is _seeing_ Francis Kindy for the week. That’s fine, sure. It’s not like Alex had written down a few things that he’d have liked to do with John on Valentine’s day to keep up this “farce” a few months ago. It’s not like a few of those things had something to do with surprising John. It’s not like Alex had played the scenes out in his head.

It was fine, _fine._ They didn’t have to do all that stuff. They weren’t _dating._ No one was going to call them out on anything. No one cares about what couples do on their anniversaries. It doesn’t _matter_ how Alex feels about John, whether he was in love with him or not. All of that doesn’t matter. Why? Because Alex had already decided to ditch those feelings. Stuff them in a duffle bag, drive out to the fucking cliffs of Dover or something, and throw it into the water. The wind would carry it away from the shore. Hopefully, it’d never reach France.

Suddenly, Thomas sat next to him on the couch. He lifted his hand and brought it up to cup Alexander’s cheek. He rubbed at something with his thumb.

“You’re crying.”

 _What?_ No he wasn’t. Alex didn’t cry.

Alex pulled away, bringing his own hand up to his face. His hand came back wet. He was crying. He hadn’t cried since, since his mother’s passing--there was no way he should start now.

But despite that, he allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. He buried his face in the crook of his neck. Thomas smelled nice. It was comforting. And Alex was drunk. Okay, not _drunk._ Tipsy. That was different. But he still blamed his change in emotions on the alcohol.

Alex was speaking before he realized it. “I just, I wish it was real,” he mumbled. “Then I could die happy.”

Thomas tensed under him. He said, “Do you want something out of it, Alex? Did you ever want something with him?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Yes and no.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know. Yet.” He frowned against Thomas’s skin. “‘N’ that pisses me off.”

Thomas smiled fondly. It was just like Alex to get mad because he didn’t know something. “You’ll know.”

Alex raised his head just enough to see Thomas’s face. It must have been close to ten by then. “How do you know that?” he asked, accusatory. “You don’t even know that it’s the _conservatives_ that lose all the time. I don’t get you.”

Thomas let out a huff of laughter. “I just do. Trust me.”

Alex snorted. His tears were forgotten. “Give me a good reason.”

“You just...you have to.”

Alex told himself he didn’t buy it. He told himself that he’d never trust Thomas Jefferson and his big hair or his full lips and whatever secrets may be told from them. He told himself he didn’t buy it.

But it was too late.

He already did. He trusted Thomas Jefferson. That wasn’t the most unnerving part of it, either. Alex’s eyes flitted down to his lips for the briefest of moments. It was enough for Thomas to mirror him. And they both leaned in. Their lips met like hands that were forming a prayer. Light. Promising.

 

And from there, Alex couldn’t think straight.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And from there, Alex couldn't think straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm warning you here, there's some mad PDA in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, quick update? It's significantly shorter, but. Enjoy?  
> (If you can spot the explicit Winesburg, Ohio reference in here, I will love you forever.)

11 PM.

It was about 11 when Alex broke away from the kiss and glanced at the clock. His breathing was laboured, and he had gone from straddling Thomas to standing just a few feet away, his back turned. What was he doing? His mind was swimming. He wanted to dive back in for more, but he also wanted to keep his distance. He instinctively reached for his phone. He remembered hearing it chime sometime before.

It was a message from John.

From John.

 

**From: John Laurens**

**10:22 PM**

**I ran into my dad**

 

Oh _shit._

 

**To: John Laurens**

**11:01 PM**

**shit, what’d he do?**

 

That was all Alex could manage to text back before he heard Thomas get up from the couch. He hurriedly slipped his phone back in his pocket, just as Thomas hugged him from behind. He rested his chin on Alex’s shoulder.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

And he sounded so sweet, so genuine, that the fight that Alex might have put up against him all but faded away. He swallowed.

“No,” Alex answered. It felt so _wrong_ kissing his alleged “rival” like, like _that_ , but oh, how _right_ it felt. Maybe this...wasn’t a bad thing? “Sorry,” he apologized. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of doubt. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I guess I needed a little space.”

“We could stop, if you’d like.” Ever the southern gentleman.

 _No!_ Alex wanted to say. _We shouldn’t_ need _to stop, because_ goddammit _, that’s the most alive I’ve felt in ages!_ If “ages” only meant a few months, that is. (Which just happened to be the last and only time he had kissed John.)

Instead of saying anything, he turned in Thomas’s arms and pressed a kiss to his lips. He broke away a moment later. He didn’t want to stop, god no, but he should get home. It was already late as is.

“I should leave.”

Thomas wet his lips. Alex couldn’t help but look. “Alright,” he said, allowing his arms to slip away from Alex. “Let me pour you a drink first.”

It was nonalcoholic. Water, actually. Something that Alex gulped down like he hadn’t seen water in days. After setting down the glass, he realized his head was still spinning. Exactly _how_ much had he drank? It wouldn’t do for him to take a taxi home with the possibility of him throwing up all over the seats. So he stayed.

Stayed until the clock struck midnight. It was Sunday. The holy day. Valentine’s day. He still hadn’t heard back from John. _His phone might be dead_ , Alex offered. _He could be doing things. Or he could be asleep. It’s past midnight, for chrissake._

Still, his mood soured. Why hadn’t John texted him back? What, was he too busy _sucking face_ to answer? Actually, Alex didn’t want to go there. Even as the effects of the alcohol wore off, he wouldn’t want to start crying over something so trivial again. _So trivial._

 _Veep_ was playing on the TV. Thomas put it on to fill the silence. (Apparently, he had an HBO subscription. Of course he did.) Alex wasn’t really watching it. He scooted closer. How far could he push it before he got Thomas to kick him out? This was the very thing he wondered as he leaned over, resting his head on Thomas’s shoulder.

Except something odd happened. Thomas accommodated him. He shifted so that he could rest his head against Alex’s, even going as far as lacing their fingers together. Alex didn’t flinch away. He remained perfectly still. Thomas still smelled really nice.

Maybe this was okay. Maybe he could indulge in this, this _fantasy_ for just a bit longer.

It was nearly 1 AM by the time that Alex turned his head and pressed a kiss to Thomas’s crazy jawline, just for the hell of it. Thomas responded in kind, turning his head to meet Alex with a kiss. It was sweet. Kind. Promising. Almost like--like Alex could _have_ something with this man. The notion, of course, is absurd. He blamed the dizzying nature with which Thomas kissed.

One thing led to another, and all of a sudden, Alex was laid on his back with Thomas’s wandering hands everywhere. It filled Alex with a kind of emotion that he hadn’t felt in its entirety since he was witness to the outline of John in his pajama pants, back when they had both been on good terms in South Carolina.

But that was not something that he should be thinking of. Especially not in his current state. Thomas had said something.

“What?” he asked, blearily.

“The bed. We have to--” Thomas gathered Alex up into his arms, eliciting a shout of surprise from the man. He was then carried down a hallway and into an open door, whereupon he was placed on a bed. Thomas’s bed.

And then it was 2 AM. He caught sight of a clock directly over a door frame. It was similar in nature to the one in the living room. Alex could make out the reflection of a bath from within the darkened room. That might have been the bathroom. In any case, their limbs were a tangled mess in the sheets. Alex had shared a bed with other men before. This would not be the first time, nor would it be the last.

By 3 AM, the two lie, well sated, under the sheets of the bed, well protected from the swirling winds of the outside. Alex could feel the caffeine from a coffee he drank earlier thrumming through his body as he drifted in and out of consciousness. By 4, the two were well asleep.

 

Alex woke two and a half hours later with the overwhelming need to pee. His suspicions that the doorway under the clock led to a bathroom were confirmed as he slipped out of bed, tugged on a shirt, and entered. In the dim, before-morning light, Alex could see that he looked exhausted. After having relieved himself, he rinsed his face a few times with some cold water, running some of his moistened fingers through his messy hair. He’d need a brush.

And a brush was the first thing he found when glancing into a drawer. Alex hastily ran it through his hair, managing to get it all back in place. It was only when he put it back in its place did he remember what Thomas said the symbolism of brushing your hair with someone else’s brush was. He almost laughed at the thought.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Sunlight had just begun streaming through the windows, illuminating Thomas with the most heavenly of natural glows. Alex watched as he draped his arms around his waist and put his chin on Alex’s shoulder, just as he had done the night previous.

“You’re up early,” was all that he said. His voice was husky and laced with sleep; his drooping eyes reflected this.

It made Alex smile. “Morning.”

By 8 AM, Thomas had an _abundance_ of food ready for Alexander to feast upon. And feast he did. He didn’t remember eating anything since his lunch at work. Which left him starving. Thomas merely sipped at his coffee, seated across the table. As soon as Alex was finished, he dressed as quickly as he could. He’d spent all of twelve hours there. Thomas saw him out.

 _He hasn’t got anything on me_ , he thought as he bounded down the steps of the building. It was already 9 AM. _Nobody knows. It’s mutually assured destruction, anyways._

  
And that certainly wasn’t the last time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to South Carolina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is literally five in the morning. I have no excuse for my absence.

South Carolina was something of a bittersweet place for John. It was where he had spent most of his childhood in the loving arms of his mother, made most of his memories, and ultimately came of age. He will admit, a lot of his life up to four years ago was pretty great.

Being in South Carolina was, however, a lot less liberating than being in New York. Of course, it was a lot quieter than the hustle and bustle that was New York City (which John remembers hating when he first got to the city), that much was a given. But would one want to be faced with acceptance of who they are, or would one want to be faced with heavy criticism and bigotry simply for not being able to conform to what a certain group of people deems “right”?

It should be easy for John to try his best to conform, anyways. It’s what he’s been doing his whole life.

With that in mind, John booked a flight to Charleston on Saturday, February 6th on a whim. He’d just gotten around to Facebook messaging his old friend, Francis Kinloch, earlier that week. After Alex started blowing him off to start hanging out with _Jefferson._

Francis convinced him to visit him in South Carolina. How was John going to say no? It was Francis’s first semester out of Geneva. He _had_ to come visit.

Which, of course, prompted John to plan to tell Alex for the remainder of the morning. How would he tell him? _Hey Alex, I know this is sudden but I bought a plane ticket to visit someone in South Carolina. I know I’m pissed at you and high-key avoiding you, but I promise that this trip has nothing to do with that. My flight leaves at 7 in the morning. I’ll email my professors about it later. I should be back Wednesday or Thursday._ Something like that? Sure. Why not.

But then, his chance slipped him by as the morning came and went, and they once again did not go on their usual lunch together. He could just tell Alex before he left for Jefferson’s. Except all he could manage in the moment was a stuttered “bye” and a half-wave because John didn’t think to keep him for just a few more minutes. That was partially because he was still pissed at Alex for not telling him that he’d been hanging out with _Thomas Jefferson_ this whole time. (Alex’s flimsy excuses were _always_ easy to see through. John isn’t dumb. It finally made sense.)

The man was _bad news._ Apparently, Alex was too damn _stubborn_ to listen to reason. As usual.

But that doesn’t matter. The point is that John was going to wait for Alex to get back home to tell him about his trip. But yet again, John put it off. He’d be forced to tell Alex when he got back from Jefferson’s house. Which, of course, wasn’t as soon as John hoped to tell his friend, but he worked with what he could.

It was also partially his fault. After all, it was _he_ who had pointedly ignored Alex for the entire day, so to blame it on something as inconsistent as fate wouldn’t be fair.

So he waited. And waited and waited. The original plan was to be back by, at the latest, Wednesday night, so that he wouldn’t miss too much school. But as the hours of the night dragged on into the morning, the plan had begun to change a bit. _Do I_ really _want to be here for half the week?_ John wondered to himself. He set his laptop aside and walked into the kitchen. He took a glance at the calendar. He wasn’t doing anything until the 16th. Good. Then he’d be back by the 15th. John shot a quick text to his friend, Francis, to see if that was alright. It was. Cool. So he’d have to change the date of his ticket back.

John glanced one more time at the calendar before leaving the kitchen. He paused. There was a red heart around the number 14 on the second Sunday of the month. He remembers Alex putting the calendar up the day after John had bought it back in the beginning of January. Before he’d announced that he was going to run against the king of this school. Alex began going through and marking important dates like birthdays and deadlines and June 26th, stopping with a start midway through marking John’s birthday in October. John saw Alex trot off to his room and come back with a sparkly red pen that he’d stolen from Eliza a few months back. He saw his friend flip to February and draw a red heart around the number 14.

“So we don’t forget our own ‘anniversary,’” he’d said.

If John were to get back on the 15th, he’d miss the day entirely. Would it be alright to miss it? Well, sure it would. He hadn’t planned anything with Alex, so there wouldn’t be any harm in being away. _Of course there wouldn’t be_ , John scolded himself. _We aren’t dating._

That’s fine. John tapped his laptop screen awake and changed the date of his return. Easy enough. A nervous glance towards the clock told him that it was already 11 PM. Alex wasn’t home. _Well fine_ , John thought, _I can wait._ He told himself that he’d only wait for another hour before going to bed, and if Alex wasn’t home by then -- tough shit.

But, well, one hour turned into two, and two hours turned into three, and soon enough, John was all but pulling his hair out waiting for his friend to get his ass home. He wondered if he should call, or at the very least text Alex. As soon as he came close to pressing the call button or send a worried text, John stopped himself.

Alex is a grown ass man. He can handle himself. Or at least, John certainly hopes so.

In any case, he was probably spending the night at Jefferson’s at this point. He might be passed out drunk or high or, or maybe even exhausted from a debate that he’d (likely) started. That’s fine. John got up to brush his teeth. He should be _sleeping_ , not worrying about when his goddamn _roommate_ would be getting home. He’d just leave Alex a note. A long note. Explaining the whole situation.

John rinsed out his mouth, ridding himself of the toothpaste. He leaned on the counter, staring his reflection in the eyes. _Alex is fine_ , he told himself. _You’re going to go to bed, get the best fucking three and a half hours of sleep you’ve had in your life, and not worry one bit about Alexander Hamilton. Got it? Cool._

Just in that instant, he heard the front doorknob rattle. He held his breath, listening. _What the fuck?_ He heard a snicker from behind the door. John moved quietly, turning off the bathroom light and peeking out into the hallway. He could see the door from his current position. The knob rattled again. The lock clicked and the door swung open, not a second later.

And in comes Alex.

John had never felt more relieved and more pissed off in his life.

“Wow,” he scoffed, stepping into the hallway. He closed the gap between the two of them. “You couldn’t bother to call, could you?”

“Hi,” Alex breathed out. John's nose crinkled the slightest bit.

“You reek like wine,” he said, taking the disheveled image of his friend in. He was drunk. No question about it.

Alex laughed, sending more of his wine breath towards John. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“Two. In the morning.” He'd been waiting for six hours. _Six._ That somehow made him angrier than Alex coming home drunk did.

“Crazy.” Alex had this dopey smile on his face. It faded a bit as he asked, “Why-why are you up?”

 _Why am I up?_ John thought. _Oh, I'll tell you why I'm up._ “I was waiting for _your_ dumb ass to get home. What the hell were you _thinking_?” That question was a little rhetorical in nature. Alex _wasn't_ thinking. That was the problem. He was about to go on, but Alex quickly spoke.

“Relax, John, dear. Relax. I’m fine. I’m here. I got a cab. Thomas paid for it. I think.”

That provided no amount of comfort for John. But never mind that, since when were he and Jefferson so _familiar_ with one another? It prompted him to exclaim in bewilderment, “ _Thomas?!_ ”

“Jefferson? C’mon, we’ve talked ‘bout him all the time. He’s...he’s not a total dickshit.”Alex snickered. John didn't find it funny. “Dickshit,” he muttered. “I meant dipshit. But same thing. He’s nice. And smart. Nice-smart. Nart. He gave me some of his wine. He said to me, ‘Alex, this is my favorite, _Château Haut-Batailley_.’ The rest is a blur to me. I wasn’t paying attention. He was tellin’ me some things about the history of the company.”

John watched as Alex leaned forward, resting his head against John's chest. He hoped that Alex couldn't tell how that made his heart begin to race. Everything else that Alex said was lost to John. He was talking about…politics now? That didn't matter. Soon enough, Alex stopped his nonstop talking, simply leaning heavily against John for support. His eyes were closed.

Alex stopped just short of wrapping his arms around John’s waist. John wasn’t sure how that made him feel. So he panicked, and said, “Alex, I don’t want to hear it.” He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. He whined like a child that didn’t want to get up early in the morning. He was a mess. “I’m going to sleep.”

John let go and saw as Alex swayed a little before regaining his footing. He turned to leave, but stopped himself. He had something to do. To say. “By the way, I’m going to South Carolina for a week.” That’s not how he intended it to come out, but it came out that way. There was nothing he could do about it.

Alex blinked, as though he’d just been pulled from a stupor. Which, in a sense, he was. “You’re _what_?” he asked, blinking furiously. “Why?”

John shrugged. He felt some pettiness as he said, “Reasons.” The same excuse that Alex had given him earlier.

It took Alex a moment to process that. Well, more like a few moments. A few moments that John took to flee the scene.

“John Laurens, don’t you _dare_ use that excuse on me–” was all that John heard before promptly slamming his bedroom door.

 

Waking up that morning was hell. He’d only slept for about two and a half hours. He was probably better off not sleeping at all. His head was groggy and his body felt disgusting from the lack of sleep. He hauled himself out of bed anyways, dressing as quickly as he could. Things in hand, he paused before he left. Alex came home drunk last night. He wouldn’t remember that John told him he’d be gone for a week.

So he set his things down and rushed back to the kitchen, hastily scribbling down a note and sticking it to the fridge. Hopefully, Alex would be able to read it.

The flight itself was alright. John spent it reading a favorite book, since he made the decision beforehand to not even bother trying to sleep. Francis met him in the airport; they exchanged a few greetings and a quick hug, piling into Francis’s car as quickly as possible so that they may _properly_ catch up.

“So John, I hear you got yourself a _boyfriend_ ,” Francis smirked, waggling his eyebrows at his old friend.

John couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at that. “Yeah,” he sighed out, eyeing the glove box. “About that. We’re not _really_ dating.”

“Oh.” A beat passed. “Is it like a friends-with-benefits type of thing?”

“Well, no.”

“A rumor that got out of hand?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Is it complicated? I feel like it is.”

John thought for a moment. “Kind of? I mean, back in December, my dad called me and had the _audacity_ to ask me if I still ‘thought’ that I was gay, and I sort of roped my roommate into it by saying I’ve been datin’ him. And then he flew us here for a few days to ‘talk’ and of course, I chose the most ambitious friend to be my fake boyfriend. Like, he didn’t even hesitate. He dove right into the role.”

“Mm. What’s his name?”

“Alex. Alexander Hamilton.”

“Interesting.” John could see the gears turning in Francis’s head.

“What?”

“Nothin’, just thinking.” And that was all that Francis seemed to want to say about it. So John dropped the subject.

 

Francis’s apartment wasn’t too bad. It was a one-bedroom apartment, so John would have to sleep on the couch, but that was alright. In fact, he noted, plopping down on said couch, it wasn’t too uncomfortable. It seemed new. Almost like no one had really sat on it before. Hopefully it wouldn’t throw out his back.

The rest of the apartment had a minimalist aesthetic to it; the living room and kitchen alike were neat in the modern sense (a throwback to old post-war interior designs, John supposed), and had not one thing out of place.

John felt a dip in the couch next to him. He turned to look just as Francis sat down, mirroring him. His friend laced their fingers together, leaning in so that their lips may meet. It was nice. It was exactly what John needed. So he kissed back. But then, the image of Alex popped into his mind. And suddenly, their innocent little kiss felt oh-so wrong.

“Mm,” John hummed, breaking away. “Can we maybe, like, not do this?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Francis slid away, breaking the bond their fingers had with each other. “I’m sorry, I should have asked, I mean you probably like--”

“No, no, it’s alright, it’s just,” John shrugged, “I dunno, it doesn’t feel right. ‘S a moral thing, I guess.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry--” Francis began, but John was having none of it.

“It’s okay, Francis.” A smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

A moral thing. That’s all it was. Of course. It’s just that John felt as though he was somehow _cheating_ on Alex by kissing his old friend. Which, of course, is totally _ridiculous_ when thought about, as the two weren’t even dating to begin with. But that was just fine with John.

They had kissed back in their high school days in Geneva. A _lot._ There was nothing stopping John from repeating the past, other than his silly mind telling him that he’d be cheating on his “boyfriend” if he went any further than a few hugs.

Speak of the devil, his phone pinged with a text message from Alex.

 

**From: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**11:11 AM**

**what’s in sc anyways?**

 

John remembered changing Alex’s name in his phone after Gilbert called him “mister _I stay up all night and never sleep_.” It’s perfect. Not to mention _totally fitting._

 

**To: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**11:13 AM**

**An old friend.**

 

John actually took the time to go back and use proper capitalization and punctuation. Friend or not, John was still _pissed._

They continued their correspondence for a few more minutes (really, just two more messages) before John realized that Alex had stopped texting back. He must be super hung over. Maybe he fell asleep. In any case, there was a break in the conversation. John pocketed his phone for a bit as his friend put on a movie.

When it chimed again, he didn’t look at it immediately.

 

**From: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**11:23 AM**

**you didn’t tell your dad, did you?**

 

 _Tell his dad?_ What, was John an idiot or something like that? He had no intent on seeing his dad until he had to go home for the summer. That was the end of it.

 

**To: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**11:27 AM**

**Do you think I have a death wish or something?**

 

It was a stupid question. And to think Alex knew him better than that.

 

The week was spent uneventfully. He received not another text from Alex. That Sunday, the two stayed in for most of the afternoon, only going out to eat at a local pizza parlor in the evening. (As for the rest of the week, Francis had class, so John was left to fend for himself for a majority of the day, often waking up to find his friend already gone. They went out to eat most evenings, and John tended to avoid places where his dad might hang around.)

The apex of the week came the next Saturday, the day before Valentine’s day. The duo decided to go to the mall for the hell of it in the afternoon, sharing a few laughs and jokes in one of the department stores, when suddenly, John saw someone that made his stomach drop.

“Hey, you alright?” Francis asked worriedly, eyebrows furrowed.

“No. Shit. My dad’s here.”

John looked over at his friend as he said, “You didn’t tell him you were coming, did you?”

“No.” John shook his head. “No, I can’t let him see me.”

“Alright, uh,” John could see the gears turning in his friend’s mind. “How about this; I keep eyes on him, and you go hide in the bathroom or something?”

“Yeah.” John took a glance around. He lost sight of Henry. “Yeah, sure. That works.” Rushing off, he said over his shoulder, “Text me the all clear.”

So John’s dad was in the same building. Chances are, he didn’t even see him. John would hate to have the conversation that began with “funny seeing you home in South Carolina, Jack.” He would have to hide in the bathrooms until he left. It was a turn in the plot, surely, but not a total death sentence. What’s the worst that could happen if he was discovered, anyways? John would just say that he was visiting for the weekend and wanted to buy a few gifts for the family upon his return. _Yeah_ , that wasn’t too radical an excuse for being in Charleston.

In his thoughts, John bumped into someone. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, intending to duck into the bathroom as swiftly as possible.

“Jack?”

His blood ran cold. He slowly looked up from the floor, met with the piercing eyes of his father. He did the first thing he thought of, desperately recalling everything he learned in a theatre class that he once took in NYC. “Dad! Hey!” He feigned surprise. “Funny bumpin’ into you here,” he said, laughing more nervously than he intended to.

His dad, however, was not laughing. “I could say the same thing myself. Isn’t school still in session, Jack?”

“It is, yes, you are absolutely right. I just wanted to fly in for the weekend. Y’know. Surprise y’all.” John’s palms were starting to sweat.

“Is that right?”

“Well, y’know, I wanted to buy a few things, like a new skirt for Patsy, a new stuffed animal for Polly, maybe-- maybe a new video game for Harry. Somethin’ for you, too.”

John hopes Henry doesn’t see through it. He hopes to God himself that Henry buys it. And it seems like he does. Or, at least, he plays along with it. Henry’s not the type to handle familial issues in _department stores._

“Well, don’t let me stop you. Carry on,” he said, and John all but deflated with relief. On his way out, Henry paused. “I’ll be expecting you for supper tonight, Jack.”

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He hoped that that only meant what he said and included nothing else. “Yes, sir,” he said to his father’s retreating form, throat suddenly dry.

Looking himself over in the bathroom mirror twice, John made his way to where his friend was.

“Oh, I was just about to text you! He’s--” He stopped mid sentence, sensing something was amiss. “John?”

“He knows, Francis. And now I have to make an appearance at the house for supper.

 

At around 6:30 PM, there came a knock on the door of the Laurens family residence. The youngest child, Mary Eleanor, offered to open it, letting out a cry of delight at the sight of the person standing behind the door.

“Jack!” She was grinning ear to ear. It wasn’t long before she launched herself into his arms, causing him to drop the gifts that he had brought.

John swung her around, setting her down just in time to see his other siblings rush towards the door. The look on their faces as John handed them each their gifts made him think that _maybe_ this whole stunt was worth it.

Supper itself went smoothly. There was not a question pressed towards John by his father the whole time (which, admittedly, made John more nervous than relieved, but even so.) He expected _the_ conversation to happen sometime afterwards. There was no way that Henry bought the shit John was spewing earlier. _No way._ The man has far more ingenuity than that.

John’s suspicions were confirmed, just as Henry ordered for Martha and Mary Eleanor to clean up the table, and for Harry to help them with the dishes. John caught Martha giving him a reassuring glance as Henry asked John to join him in his study for a “chat.”

“So,” Henry began, folding his hands over his desk. He was glancing at something on his desk computer. “Why are you _really_ here, son?” Before John could respond, he tacked on another question: “Isn’t it your anniversary tomorrow?”

John swallowed. He needed to remain calm. It wouldn’t do him any good to get upset midway through their little “chat.” _Be respectful_ , he reminded himself, as he said, “Yes, sir. It is.”

“If it is, what are you doing _here_ , instead of in New York? Why were you with that boy earlier?”

“Which boy, sir?” John forced himself to look at his father in the eyes, confidence unwavering. He knew exactly which boy Henry was referring to.

“The one with you in the mall.” He paused a moment, frowning to himself. “Don’t tell me that you’re _cheating_ , Jack. I thought I raised you better than this.”

“Cheating?” John couldn’t help but ask in bewilderment. He’d outright _refused_ to do anything intimate with Francis during the entirety of his stay for the fact that it felt like he _was_ cheating. “Please, dad, he’s just a friend.”

“A friend whom you’ve met where, exactly?”

“Geneva. We used to be roommates.”

“Ah.” Henry nodded. John could see him mouth the word _roommates_ to himself. “But you haven’t answered my question--why are you _really_ here?”

Henry could see right through John’s lie. John knew it. Henry knew that John knew it. His entire being was screaming at him to stop this lie where it was and come clean with his father. Yet, he said, “Like I said, I came to visit, sir.”

“Of course you did, Jack.” John could feel his palms begin to sweat against the stupid chairs of his dad’s study at that. He mentally prepared himself for whatever was to come next. But all his father said was, “Very well. It’s late.” It wasn’t. It was only about 8. “You should be going back to your hotel.” He stood, prompting John to do the same.

“I should,” John said, remaining rooted to the spot.

“Make sure to say goodnight to your siblings on your way out. Lord knows you don’t see them as often as you should.”

John nodded. And nodded once more. “Of course. Goodnight, sir,” he said, turning on his heel to leave.

“Oh, and Jack,” his father called him back, just has his fingertips grazed the handle of the doorknob. “I trust that I’ll see you at church tomorrow morning, yes?”

John looked back. What choice did he have? “Of course, sir.”

 

The next morning, John dressed in his Sunday best, just like he used to as a teenager. The very thought gave him war flashbacks. _Just one sermon_ , he promised himself. _Just one, and you’ll be free for the next few months._ He had absolutely no intention of sticking around long enough for Henry to attack him with more questions.

The night before, he had texted Alexander at around 10 PM. It was the first time that he had texted Alex all week, and yet, he had to wait almost an hour for a reply. It filled John with a sense of contempt. He’d forgotten to reply until about two in the morning.

 

**To: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**2:22 AM**

**nothing yet. he invited me to go to church in the morning.**

 

A reply hadn’t come in yet.

Which was fine. He didn’t expect Alex to be awake at seven in the morning on a weekend.

Speaking of which, John was utterly exhausted. He had about five hours of sleep. He’d admit, binge watching _Parks and Rec_ with Francis wasn’t the smartest thing to do when he had to be up early.

But that was fine. He’d live.

Pulling up to the church that his family went to, John could see that his family had just arrived themselves. Martha was wearing the skirt that he gave her. He felt a smile tug on his lips at that.

They took their seats just before the sermon began; it was the second row.

He sat through the boring sermon, much like the ones that he had suffered in through his teenage years, trying his hardest not to fall asleep. John never really paid attention much. Not since his mom died, anyways.

He’d lost faith not long after she passed. He remembered her kind words: “God loves you, no matter what. We need to be good people for Him. Could you imagine going to heaven and not being fit for it? But you don’t need to worry about nothin’, Jack. If you went to heaven right now, you’d be God’s favorite child, just like you’re mine. I love you very, very much, Jack. No matter what you do, or who you turn out to be. I’ll love you no matter what.”

His heart tugged at the memory of that conversation. He remembered being bored of all the sermons they had to attend, asking his mom why they had to go at all. That was part of her response. The very thought that she _might_ have been supportive of his sexuality immediately brought tears to his eyes. He hastily wiped at them. There was a time and a place for such things.

John was quite thankful that his dad was never the type to stay and chat with the other families for too long unless absolutely necessary. John excused himself as soon as he could, but was stopped by the unrelenting force that was his father.

“Come home for a bit, Jack. Your siblings miss you.”

So John went home with them in the car that he had borrowed from Francis.

Foolish.

John found himself yet again seated in front of his father in his study, sat down in one of those ridiculously lavish chairs.

“As the eldest son, you should certainly know by now that I expect a lot of you,” was how Henry began. And John certainly did know it. “And as such, I do not take kindly to you lying to me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but--”

Henry held up a hand to silence him. “Now, if we were Catholic, I would have made you go to confession, but,” he let out a sigh, “we’re not. Those loons don’t even read the bible. Seeing as we’re good, God-fearing men living at the pleasure of Providence's hand, you, as well as I, should act as a citizen fit for heaven. Because God might just have saved your sorry soul at birth.”

There was a break in the conversation as Henry began to click around on his computer. After a while, he showed John what was on the screen. John took one glance at the screen and felt his stomach drop. He looked back to his father, who was stubbornly silent.

It was his attendance records.

“Where did you--” John began weakly.

“Do you think that I couldn’t get access to this information?” He asked. John was silent. “You’ve been missing from your classes all week. I was just about to call you when I saw you at the store.” He took a moment to look John up and down. “Gone all week with not a word to say? Inexcusable. I should take you out of that damned school right now if you think that you just _not go to class_ and everything will be okay.

“That’s not how the _real world_ works, Jack. If you don’t show up to work all week, you’re fired. _I’m_ the one in charge of your finances, correct?” When John didn’t respond, Henry repeated, “ _Correct_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tuition prices over there ain’t cheap, son. I’m paying thousands of dollars a _month_ just to give you an education, and you decide to take a week off without consulting _anyone_? You don’t deserve to be at Columbia, you good-for-nothing son of mine.”

Ouch.

“I’m _very_ disappointed in you.”

If there’s something that John wanted more than anything, it was his dad’s approval. Which was something that he hated to admit, but it was true.

“Dad,” he pleaded, “ _please._ Don’t pull me out of Columbia.” At this point, he was biting back tears. He willed his eyes to stay dry.

“Give me one good reason.”

“My-my friends are all over there,” was the first thing to come to mind.

“I’ve always thought they were a bad influence on you. I mean, look at you! You’re here, talking back to me with no respect whatsoever, which is something that you’ve _never_ done before meeting them. I’m taking you out of that school. It is a terrible, _terrible_ influence on your character.”

John stared at his father, trying to keep his gaze neutral. There was a pause that lasted for an indefinite amount of time before John said, “Alright, dad. What do you want from me? I’ll do anything, just. _Please._ Let me stay at Columbia.”

They sat in their respective chairs in tense silence. “I have a request,” he began. “If you’re to stay over there, _despite_ what you’ve done this week, you’re going to switch majors. I may have tolerated your wishes to do pre-med before, but I see no gain in it. Especially not now. Switch to pre-law, and _then_ you may stay at that school.”

John gulped. As much as he wanted to be a nurse, to _help_ people, he had no choice. He would have to work his _ass_ off to make up for a year and a half’s worth of credits if he wanted to graduate on time, but. If it allowed him to stay at Columbia…

“Deal,” he said, standing up. His father followed suit. They shook hands.

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter with a note about the mythological Tantalus at the end notes. Enjoy.

John’s plans to come home on Monday night shifted to Monday afternoon after that conversation that he had with his father.

He’d told Francis about it after it had happened. He hadn’t offered any sort of advice to John, save for a sympathetic pat on the back. Something that somehow helped less than not talking about it. But, well, John didn’t exactly expect his old friend to understand just how much helping people as a nurse meant to him. His fantasies of changing someone’s day for the better were shattered. There was nothing he could do about it. It was almost like learned helplessness, in a way. He knew that no matter how convincing of an argument he held up against his father’s beliefs, there would be no force on earth that could possibly change them. John has known this for _years._ No matter what, he would always be forced to bend to his father’s will.

John’s flight arrived in NYC at noon. He managed to snag an earlier flight in. As he drove from the airport back to the apartment, he saw a strangely familiar blue porsche driving in the opposite direction. Of course, John thought nothing of it at the time. There were a lot of rich, pompous assholes that lived in New York. It could have been _anyone’s_ car.

In any case, John took a moment to sit in his car and truly think about what he was going to tell Alex. Would he apologize for leaving without warning? He should, as that would be the right thing to do, but...well, he would see about that. Or perhaps he would remain nonchalant; Alex never did text back to find out just _what_ happened in South Carolina, so maybe John wouldn’t mention that he was changing his major because of his father. He could just say that he was more interested in law, or something like that.

But, of course, as John walked up the steps to his floor and opened the door to his apartment building, he did none of that. As soon as John laid eyes on Alex’s face, eyes wide from coffee yet tired with sleep deprivation -- _his_ Alex that he knows so well -- his resolve crumbled.

He felt tears sting his eyes as he heard Alex saying, “John! You’re home!” in a -- what was that, nervous? -- tone.

John said nothing as he closed the gap between them. No “hi” or “I think I should apologize.” Nothing.

“John?” He heard Alex asking. “Are you okay?”

 _No_ , he thought, bringing Alex in for a hug. John buried his face in his neck. _I’m not okay. All this fighting is stupid. I should apologize. I shouldn’t have gone on that trip. We should have talked it out, like_ adults. He could feel Alex reciprocate the hug. Almost hesitantly.

John, however, voiced none of his thoughts. Instead, he said exactly what he said he wasn’t going to say. “Looks like I can’t be a nurse, Alex.” His voice quivered. He noticed that Alex smelled a little differently. It was still _him_ of course, just with a hint of something else. Maybe he went to a party last night and still hadn’t taken a shower.

“What do you mean, John?” Alex asked. John hesitated. He didn’t want to tell Alex. It was a pride thing. But now that he got the ball rolling, there was no way to stop the truth from spilling out.

He stepped back, allowing his hands to slip away from Alex. He hates to admit it, but he missed his friend. Dearly. So, he brought Alex to the couch in front of the TV, sat him down, and told him everything that had happened over the weekend, from his dad seeing him first in that department store, to the last conversation that the two had.

His friend comforted him as best as he could. Alex gave him these reassuring little touches, ranging from knocking their knees together to slipping his hand into John’s. Something that John felt his stomach twist at. Whether good or bad, he squeezed Alex’s hand back nonetheless. He supposed that this was the difference between his past and his present. The past offers no amount of comfort; it has nothing for one to confide in. The present, the _future,_ is unpredictable. And yet, it is promising. One must not live in the past. It brings their downfall, much like that of Mr. Gatsby.

Still, Alex’s previous argument still stands: he is going to fucking _punch_ Henry Laurens.

 

John went to sleep earlier than he would have that night, allowing Alex to slip out of the apartment unnoticed. He found himself, as he does now, in Thomas’s apartment.

“Alexander,” Thomas had said upon opening the door. There was a warm smile on his face. “What brings you here at this late hour? And so soon after our last _meeting._ ”

Alex walked through the door that Thomas held open, and into the grandeur that was his current state of living. He didn’t miss the emphasis that Thomas put on the word “meeting.” He chewed on his lip. He heard the door close, lips captured in a kiss not a moment later. His hands were lost in Thomas’s thick hair in an instant. What had he come here to do? Thomas made it difficult to remember.

 _John is home_ , Alex remembered with a start. John is home. John is _home_ , where Alex could reach out and touch him, if he so pleased. Hell, he could even _kiss_ John again if he was feeling daring. That pained him. He couldn’t keep going on with this whole “affair.” The mere fact that John was _right there_ if Alex grew the balls to finally ask him out _for real_ was almost too much to take. So he broke the kiss. He looked up at Thomas. Sure, Alex could pretend that he was kissing _someone else,_ but it just wasn’t the same.

Alex let his hands slide down Thomas’s chest, coming to rest at his sides. Before Thomas could get a word in, Alex said, “Thomas, I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Thomas leaned forward. There was a slight glint of...of _something_ in his eyes. “You can’t, or you don’t want to?” He asked.

Alex paused. He didn’t want to stop. He felt _something_ for Thomas. He knew this much. It pains him to leave; it pains him to stay. But staying wouldn’t be _right._ Alex knew that. But oh, how Thomas leaned in. Inviting. _Tantalizing._ Almost as if he knew how Alex felt about John being back. Alex felt like Tantalus in that moment. He’d angered the gods with this pseudo infidelity. And now, he was forced to suffer eternal thirst, eternal hunger for what he cannot have; for John was the water in Hades, the fruits that the winds would always keep away from him, and even if Alex were to lean down to drink, or reach out for a delicious fruit, the water would recede and the winds would remain impervious in their duties. There was no winning.

Alex didn’t want to stop. He let Thomas kiss him, almost like he was a poor substitution for the water he was denied.

It didn’t stop there.

It _should_ have stopped there.

 

A few weeks passed, and although John and Alex never spoke of their disagreements, the tension that had been there before had eased, somewhat. They were almost back to where they had been.

That is, until, Alex made the mistake of leaving his phone face up on the coffee table while he took a shower.

John was sitting on the sofa in front of the TV, watching as a few states voted on the first _Super Tuesday_ of the election. March was just beginning. Bernie Sanders was winning four out of eleven states. Just as John looked up from his phone, he saw that CNN was letting Sanders speak. _CNN._

“Holy shit,” he breathed out, immediately sending a text to Alex.

 

**To: Alexander ‘I stay up all night and never sleep’ Hamilton**

**11:02 PM**

**DUDE holy shit get your ass out here they’re letting bernie speak for Once**

 

Not a moment later, John heard a chime coming from the coffee table. The one that Alex set for his texts. He sighed. _Goddammit, Alex. This is crucial. They might just start to talk over him in a second and you’re in the bathroom doing god-knows-what._

He was just about to get up and fetch Alex from the bathroom himself, but another chime from Alex’s phone brought his eyes back towards the coffee table. He didn’t recognize that ringtone.

Alex’s phone was lit up, displaying the lock screen. John saw his own text, seeing that his name had been changed to simply “John Laurens.” _When did that happen?_ He wondered, filing the slight pang he felt in his heart away as “irrelevant.” Directly below that, he spotted the name “Thomas.”

“Thomas,” followed by a bunch of sparkly heart emojis.

  
John’s eyes went wide at the contents of the message. He suddenly didn't care if Alex saw Sanders speaking on TV or not. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have this book on mythology. I read more about Tantalus in a few paragraphs (which I will include in this A/N for anyone who's interested.)  
> Basically, Tantalus is a mythological Greek king, and the passage that he is mentioned in this book reads as follows (warning for mentions of cannibalism):  
> "Tantalus was the son of Zeus and honored by the gods beyond all the mortal children of Zeus. They allowed him to eat at their table, to taste the nectar and ambrosia which except for him alone none but the immortals could partake of. They did more; they came to a banquet in his palace; they condescended to dine with him. In return for their favor he acted so atrociously that no poet ever tried to explain his conduct. He had his only son Pelops killed, boiled in a great cauldron, and served to the gods. Apparently he was driven by a passion of hatred against them which made him willing to sacrifice his son in order to bring upon them the horror of being cannibals. It may be, too, that he wanted to show in the most startling and shocking way possible how easy it was to deceive the awful, venerated, humbly adored divinities. In his scorn of the gods and his measureless self-confidence he never dreamed that his guests would realize what manner of food he had set before them.  
> He was a fool. The Olympians knew. They drew back from the horrible banquet and they turned upon the criminal who had contrived it. He should be so punished, they declared, that no man to come, hearing what this man had suffered, would dare ever again to insult them. They set the arch-sinner in a pool in Hades, but whenever in his tormenting thirst he stooped to drink he could not reach the water. It disappeared, drained into the ground as he bent down. When he stood up it was there again. Over the pool fruit trees hung heavy laden with pears, pomegranates, rosy apples, sweet figs. Each time he stretched out to grasp them the wind tossed them high away out of reach. Thus he stood forever, his undying throat always athirst, his hunger in the midst of plenty never satisfied."  
> - _Mythology_ by Edith Hamilton, pages 346-47.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did that text message say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like for everyone to know that this chapter kills me. that is all.  
> (follow my tumblr @unknownexploits)

The text from “Thomas” with the _fucking_ sparkly heart emojis read as follows:

 

**From: Thomas**

**11:04 pm**

**Can we have a repeat of what happened two nights ago? ;)**

 

Followed by an eggplant emoji and a peach emoji.

John wasn’t dumb. He knew _exactly_ what that meant. The mere fact that Jefferson said “a repeat” means that this was not the first time. He sat back down, taking Alex’s phone with him. He wouldn’t go through it. No, of course not. He just wanted to...hold onto it, so to speak.

As he held onto the phone, John began to think. God _knows_ how long this had been going on. Could be the second time, or it could be the hundredth time. And John was none the wiser. Not until then, at least. And oh, how that stoked the fire of anger from within him. John felt as though he were being _cheated_ on, as though Alex betrayed him. Well, betrayed, perhaps, but cheated on? They needed to be _dating_ for that to even occur.

So John went with the latter. He felt _betrayed._ Alex was having sex with Thomas _fucking_ Jefferson, the man that John _thought_ they mutually hated. The man _oozed_ privilege and unpaid taxes. John hated his guts. He _thought_ Alexander felt the same. Well, evidently not.

He sat back, watching as Bernie made his usual speech about the politics he preaches. He heard the water from the shower shut off. John could only wait in tense silence, gripping Alexander’s phone with a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. All he knew was that he was beyond angry.

When Alex finally emerged from the bathroom, hair sticking to his neck, he had managed to catch Bernie Sanders’ closing words before he walked off the stage.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were letting the man _speak_ for once?” Alex asked. John could tell he was only mildly annoyed. So he shrugged.

Alex frowned. “John, what’s wrong?”

Suddenly the quiet before the storm. John’s jaw clenched and unclenched, lips drawn into a thin line. “Jefferson want to have sex with you. Again.” His tone was flat. His eyes remained glued on the TV, yet he could see Alexander blanche from the corner of his eye.

“What, what do you mean?” He asked nervously.

 _What do I mean? What do I_ **_mean_** _?!_ John’s head snapped towards Alexander, standing next to the couch that John was sitting on. He stood up, throwing Alexander’s phone at him. “Thomas Jefferson wants to fuck again, _you heard me._ ”

Alex took a glance at his lock screen, saw that he had a message from both John and Thomas, and glared back up at John.

“Oh, _fuck you_ , John! Do you think that just because we _live_ together that it’s okay for you to go through all my shit?! What _right_ do you have to throw that shit at me like we’re some sort of married couple, huh? I could pull the same shit with you. I’m not the one who _left_ for a _week! Also,_ while you were off doing whatever the _fuck_ you want because you think that you can travel places just because you have the money, _I_ was over here trying to convince everyone that yes, we’re _still_ a thing! And what do I get? _What_ do I get? I get _you_ breathing down my neck like you’re my fucking _wife_ or something. Never mind the fact that you decided to _skip_ our one year ‘anniversary’ when you could have flown in on _Saturday_ , completely avoiding this whole thing with your dad! But no, you just couldn’t, could you? You let your pettiness get the better of you. Plus, I don’t get why you’re so, so _angry_ , when I bet _you_ were the one sucking face with Francis Kinley the whole week–”

“Fuck off, Alex!” John interjected, bringing himself up to his full height. He was a solid six inches taller. “I outright _refused_ to do anything with him the whole _fucking_ time I was there. Y’know why? It felt _wrong._ But no, what’s the first thing _you_ do when I leave? You start fucking your enemies! But oh no, it’s _just like you_ to assume shit like this. And for the record, it’s Kin _loch._ If you’re gonna insult _me,_ get the name right.”

Alex was glaring up at John. “Well,” he sputtered, “you could’ve told me that!”

“You shouldn’t’ve _assumed._ ”

“Yeah, well what was I _supposed_ to do?” He spoke without thinking, as he usually did. “I was here, _alone_ , all week, thinking that I might–" he stopped short.

“That you might _what_?!” Alex flinched at his tone. Actually _flinched._ John almost felt bad about it. He’d had enough.

Alex on the other hand, stammered out, “That I, that I might–” He turned away from John, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Look, does it _really_ matter?” Alex glared at a speck of something on the wall, almost like it had personally offended him. He was blinking rapidly, trying to figure out a way around this. “What _matters_ is that _you’re_ the one who was gone for a _week,_ John!”

That excuse wasn’t as powerful at it was before. _Something_ was up. The mere fact that Alex would try to avoid it pissed John off.

He was having none of it. John gripped Alex’s shoulders and roughly forced him to face him. He was right in Alex’s face when he said, “The fact that you might _what,_ Alex?”

Alexander was a frustrating person. John didn’t know why he stuck around. It’s _easy_ to leave, to turn your back on the people that frustrate you the most. But it’s not easy to leave someone like Alex. John couldn’t even begin to comprehend why he stuck by Alex through thick and thin, why he didn’t kick Alex out of the apartment for any given reason. Was it because they were friends? Because that somehow made John obligated to help Alex out at every turn? When it came down to it, _Alex_ was the source of all of John’s problems.

Yet, he couldn’t distance himself from him. Being away for a week only brought the two of them closer. John even had the nerve to _miss_ Alex when he was away. Did that make him foolish, or honest?

Alex took a glance at John’s lips. A quick glance. That was all it took for John’s resolve to crack. It was all it took for John to angrily crush their lips together because, _goddammit,_ Alexander is so _frustrating._ He was met with no resistance. Alex was kissing back with just as much ferocity, his hands gripping the fabric of John’s shirt like it was his lifeline.

They broke away all too soon, glaring into each other’s eyes. John freed Alex from the almost bruising grip that he had on his shoulders, and Alex let his own hands fall to his sides.

“The fact that I might be in love with you,” Alex said, figuring that he had nothing left to lose.

To say that it shocked John was an understatement; on the contrary, it bewildered him. It took him a moment to process. Just as Alex turned away, perhaps to find solace in his own room, John pulled him back in for another kiss. It was, admittedly, gentler than the first. Alex hardly fought back against it.

“I like you Alex. I do,” John said after they broke away for a second time, holding Alex’s face in his hands. He let his hands drop to his sides. “I just don’t _get_ why you would–”

“It’s complicated, alright?” Alex interjected.

“Complicated, huh?” John scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I’m sure it is.”

Alex sighed. “It was supposed to be a one time thing.”

A beat passed. An unvoiced second part to that statement hung in the air.

“But?” John asked, hoping to coax it out.

“But,” Alex sighed again, looking uncomfortable. “It just kept happening.”

“Right.”

John watched as Alex chewed on his bottom lip, almost like he wanted to say something more. Alex bounced on his toes. It was one of his nervous habits, John noted.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, clearly done with with Alex’s sudden hesitation. It was too unlike him.

“What does this make us?” he asked suddenly.

John had to take a moment to think. What were they? Alex was in love with John. John had just admitted, in the spur of the moment, that he liked Alex. Two different things, but could lead to the same interpretation.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Real?”

“Real,” Alex breathed out, like he couldn’t believe it. He looked to John with a glint of...something new in his eyes. “I’ll talk to Jefferson. Tonight.”

 

Alex left for Thomas Jefferson’s apartment not long after his conversation with John. he departed with his head held high and a bounce in his step, despite the conversation that he _knew_ he was going to have with Thomas. He was nervous. That much wasn’t a shock, really.

He made sure that he had a solid plan in mind. It wasn’t going to be like last time. He and John were _real,_ at long last. And that should be enough. Enough for Alex to put an end to this whole “affair.”

With that in mind, he knocked on the door to Thomas’s apartment.

“Alexander,” he said, much like he had a few weeks prior. Except his smile held a _different_ kind of warmth. One would describe it as _heat._ “Why, it’s almost midnight. Come on in.”

Alex walked in. That was the first mistake. He knew it as soon as the door shut behind him.

“I’m assuming you got my text, then?” he heard behind him.

“I did,” Alex replied, following Thomas with his eyes as he came into view. The second mistake. He should have gotten straight to the point. Thomas was quickly closing the gap between the two of them.

“Good,” Thomas breathed out, already leaning in.

Alex gulped. He _could_ steal one last kiss, couldn’t he? What would be the harm in it? John didn’t have to know. Thomas was one hell of a kisser.

But then again, it didn’t feel right. He wouldn’t be such a yes man this time around. Alex _knew_ that if he allowed Thomas to kiss him, he wouldn’t be able to say no. It had happened before. It would be the third mistake. Three strikes.

So, he reached up and pressed a finger to Thomas’s lips. “Thomas, I can’t do this anymore.”

Thomas looked slightly taken aback. Still, he smiled easily. Almost like Alex was joking. “You’re still saying that?”

“Yes!” Alex took a step away from him. His cologne was dizzying. “You don’t understand, I just.” He paused, gesturing vaguely. “Can’t.”

“Oh, come on now,” Thomas took a step towards him, leaning in for a kiss.

A jolt of panic coursed through his veins. “John and I are together!” Alex said quickly, effectively cutting him off.

That stopped him. There was a moment of tense silence.

“Together,” Thomas repeated. He looked Alex in the eye. “For real this time?”

“Yes,” he replied, although it wasn’t _entirely_ true. They hadn’t exactly discussed the details, but. There was no harm in stretching the truth.

No matter how charming a man Thomas Jefferson was, he wasn’t the best at hiding his emotions. “I see,” he said, voice insightful. “I hope y’all are happy, then. This is what you wanted after all, isn’t it?”

Alex hesitated. “Yes,” he repeated.

“Well, I don’t see a problem with it, then. I trust you’ll see yourself out?”

Alex nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Thomas as he headed towards the door and gave his goodbye. He didn’t hear a response.

  
Thomas didn’t show up for class the next morning.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been like more than two weeks, but hear me out.  
> What do you guys think about a separate jamilton endgame fic starting from like, the last chapter? Of course, I'll finish this one first, but a few friends (as well as ppl who have commented on the last few chapters) want jamilton as endgame, but like, it's lams. lowkey I also want jamilton as endgame because I'm such a sucker for it, so like. What do you guys think? Should I write it and like, make it part of this series?  
> One more thing, forgive the inaccuracies of Columbia University like I've never been to New York, no less Columbia, so. Yeah. I don't even know if college professors have offices. I made this up.  
> (come ask about the namesake of this fic on my tumblr @unknownexploits or my twitter @colonellaurens. go wild. but not really.)

Thomas didn’t show up for class the next day.

That was the first thing that Alex noticed while in his first class of the day.

The second thing he noticed was that James Madison was sending glares to the back of his head every so often. That, and he looked utterly exhausted. Alex couldn’t even _begin_ to figure out why. He tried not to think about it. About Thomas. He wrote Thomas’s absence off as him catching a sudden illness or him deciding to skip class for a day for whatever reason. That’s all it must have been.

 

Alex waited for his boyfriend, John, outside of his last class at around 4 PM. Alex couldn't help but smile a bit. His _boyfriend._ What were the odds! It actually happened. He didn't even notice that the man in question had already been dismissed from his class until he slipped his hand into Alex's and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. It gave Alex a warm feeling in his chest.

“Hey,” John greeted, million dollar smile playing out on his lips. Not that Alex was looking or anything.

“Hi,” Alex replied. “How was class?” As the two spoke, they began to walk from the economics building.

“Oh, it was just fine. I think I'm finally catching up.” There was a pause before John said, “You said you wanted to show me something?”

“I did, yes,” Alex chirped, putting a little more bounce in his step. “Remember the video? Y’know, the one?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, I did a bit of research, and there’s someone I think you wanna meet.”

John noticed they were heading towards the law building, just south of the economics building. “Please don’t tell me we’re meeting with Professor Lee. I still get headaches thinking about his political views.”

“Lee? Oh god, no. I wouldn’t even put _myself_ through that.”

The rest of the short walk to the law building was spent in relative silence. As John followed Alex up the many stairs leading up to who knows where, he couldn’t help feeling a bit curious as to who they were meeting. There were only so many professors in this building. Even less so since many have already gone home, as the building closed in less than an hour. Who could it be?

“We’re here,” Alex announced, and John took a look at the name pasted onto the less-than-transparent window set in the dark cherrywood of the door.

PROFESSOR WASHINGTON

“This is the person you were talking about?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, rapping his knuckles on the door. They heard a muffled “come in” from the other side of the door, and Alex was the first to enter. It shut heavily behind them. Perhaps Washington was expecting them.

And there the man stood from behind his desk. “Alexander,” he said, head high and voice deep. Deeper than John was expecting.

“Professor Washington, sir,” Alex responded in kind, meeting the man’s hand in a firm handshake.

Washington looked to John. “You must be John Laurens.”

“In the flesh, sir,” John responded, stepping in front of one of the two chairs before the desk in order to shake the professor’s hand. His hand was warm, dry, and broad. He invited them to sit as soon as their fingers slipped away from each other, and John couldn’t help but think that Alex was anticipating everything that Washington said.

“Now, back in January, Alexander sent me an email,” the professor began, getting right down to business. John exchanged a look with Alex. “It described a hypothetical scenario in which, and I quote, ‘two individuals are recorded without either party’s consent in a private area, in which one would expect to be alone.’”

 _Way to be subtle, Alex,_ John thought to himself. But then again, _January._ That was two months ago. What took so long for this meeting to happen?

“Now, assuming neither one of you is the recorder in this scenario,” Professor Washington began, “I would like to say that yes, recording without a single party’s consent _is_ illegal under New York’s ‘one-party consent’ law.” He took a moment to adjust his reading glasses. “Under such a law, the only way that recording a private conversation or phone call is if, one,” he counted with his fingers, “one of the parties in a private conversation or phone call is actively participating; two, one party is aware that the conversation is being recorded; or three, all parties are aware that they are being recorded.

“The penalty for even possessing eavesdropping tools is a Class A Misdemeanor, in which, as Alexander knows…”

“It could lead to a one year prison sentence,” Alex finished for him.

Washington nodded. “Precisely. Knowing about a wiretapping and failing to report it to the police results in up to three months in jail, as that person would be committing a Class B Misdemeanor.”

“What about the wiretapper himself?” John asked.

“Care to explain, Mr. Hamilton?”

Alexander nodded at the professor. “He would be committing a Class E Felony. Subject to a maximum of four years in prison.” He paused. “And a fine of a few thousand dollars.”

He and John exchanged a look. A look that prompted the professor to state, more than ask, “Forgive me if this is out of my place, but there’s nothing hypothetical about this situation, is there.”

“I plead the fifth. Sir.” Alex glanced towards Washington as he said this.

The professor let out an amused huff. “Well, then I suppose that’s all there is to discuss, yes?”

Alex nodded. “If you’ll excuse us, sir.” The two of them got up, shook hands with Washington, and headed towards the door.

“Oh, and Mr. Laurens?”

John stopped before he was out the room. He turned back. “Yes, sir?”

“I look forward to having you in my class for the summer semester.”

They finally have dirt on the school’s precious “King.”

 

Thomas poured himself another glass of the only hard liquor he had in his cabinet: whiskey.

Tax be damned. He was already on his third glass. Or was it his fourth? The room was spinning. He called someone before he even knew what he was doing.

“ _Thomas?_ ” the person asked after the ringing stopped. It was James. He sounded sleepy.

“James!” he slurred out. “How’re ya?”

“ _Are_ _you drunk?"_

Thomas paused. “No?”

He heard James sigh on the other side of the line. “ _You’re at home right?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _Stay right there. I’m coming over._ ”

Thomas mumbled something. He didn’t even remember what it was. There was silence on the other line for a moment.

“ _You’re drunk. Stay home. I’ll be right there,_ ” was all James said before the line went dead.

Thomas threw his phone somewhere. He’d look for it later. He took a moment to just shut his eyes, feeling the buzz of the alcohol wash over him. His mind was floating. He was drunk. Definitely drunk. Thomas vaguely wondered if his liver would forgive him.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, he was jolted back to the present at the sound of a harsh buzzing noise coming from the front door.

With a groan, Thomas lifted his head, squinting towards the buzzer. He hauled himself off the couch with stiff legs, muttering out a “who is it” once he got to the door. He realized his drink was still in his hand and downed it all in one go. The burn of the whiskey made him wince.

“ _It’s James,_ ” came from the wall.

“James! I’ll buzz you right in,” Thomas responded, almost like he had forgotten that James was coming at all. Which, knowing his current state of inebriation, wasn’t very unlikely.

The man in question was in Thomas’s apartment in no time, and somehow, somewhere, James stole his drink. Thomas only noticed it was gone when he went to refill it, only to find out his glass wasn’t in his hand.

James was in the middle of a sentence when Thomas said, “You should give that back.”

“Thomas, were you even listening?”

“Of course I was! Can I just,” he reached for the half-empty glass, prompting his friend to move it away from him.

“If you tell me what I said, I’ll give it back.”

Thomas was silent.

“That’s what I thought. Now, as I was saying, this borderline alcoholism isn’t healthy. What happened?”

“Why, I just poured myself a glass of whiskey–”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, I mean, what _made_ you pour yourself a glass of hard liquor, of all things? I didn’t even think you had anything like this.” James picked up the bottle, noting that it was already more than half empty. “Tell me you didn’t drink this all by yourself?”

“No! No, of course I wouldn’t. That’s, that’s disgustin’. I hate hard liquor.”

James looked at his friend, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Listen,” Thomas began after a fat second, holding a hand up but eyeing the glass of whiskey. “I didn’t drink it all.”

“Who did?”

Thomas took a breath in, almost like he was about to say something, but let it out before any actual words slipped through his lips. He took in a sharp breath a second later, and uttered out, “Alexander.”

James slowly let out a breath. He saw the inebriation in his friend’s eyes, along with a slight sadness. With his slumped shoulders and unsmiling face, he looked almost...miserable, all of a sudden.

“You said something about him on the phone,” James tested, to see if Thomas remembered.

Thomas, however, furrowed his eyebrows. “When?”

“Right after I told you I was coming over.”

“What did I say about him?” If Thomas weren’t drunk, he would likely have been worried. But at this point, he was just curious.

James, however, hesitated. Thomas wouldn’t remember. Not with how drunk he is. “You said, uh. You can’t believe that you fell for Alex.”

Thomas blinked once. Twice. Then, he said, “I mean. Yeah. ‘S ridiculous. How can I disagree with him so much one semester–” James noted that he was talking about the previous year, in which the two had shared a law class “–but be completely enamored by him in another? It just makes no sense. Do the math.”

James eyed the tissue box sitting on the coffee table nearby. This was definitely not the first time Thomas had gotten like this.

But then, James remembered something. “Isn’t Alexander dating Senator Laurens’s kid? John?”

Thomas’s bottom lip quivered, just the slightest bit. “He is now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alex and I had a,” he took a moment to gesture vaguely, “thing.”

“A thing.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Like. A month, tops.”

James took a moment to think. That “thing” must have happened right under his nose. Thomas was gone for an entire _semester,_ so it couldn’t have been then, and as far as he knew, the two hated each other during freshman year. It must have _just_ happened.

But then again, John and Alex have been in a relationship for over a year now, as rumor has it.

“Wait,” James began, “is this still going on?” _Because I won’t condone any sort of cheating,_ he couldn’t help but think.

Thomas, however, shook his head. “No, sir, he just. Tore my heart out tonight. Told me he ‘couldn’t do this’ anymore.” When James said nothing, he continued. “And y’know, it sucks. We had these sweet little moments that I wouldn’t trade for the _world,_ and when I was with him, it didn’t matter that we didn’t agree on a few things because. Because – just because. I mean the sex was great too and all, but. We could live without it. Y’know? I ‘unno, I guess I really liked him or somethin’.”

James looked a little doubtful. “You _liked_ him?”

“Okay...maybe I _loved_ him,” he admitted, his voice cracking on the word “love.” And that’s when his resolve crumbled. Whatever was holding back his tears suddenly broke, and he could only helplessly wipe at them as they escaped from his eyes. He swore under his breath as he took the tissue offered to him by his friend, whose embrace he felt not a moment later.

“‘Sophisticated–God, I’m sophisticated!’” he quoted, body soon wracked with sobs as he held his friend tight, and let himself be held tight.

By the time Thomas calmed down some time later, plagued only by the occasional hiccup and tear, James suggested, “We should get you to sleep.”

Thomas hardly protested as he was led back to his bedroom, vaguely noticing how James turned the lights off on their way. He remembered asking his friend to stay in bed with him for the night, just like they used to when they used to have sleepovers back in high school. James agreed, and stayed the entire night, rubbing comforting circles into his friend’s back until he fell asleep.

James didn’t sleep a wink after that.

 

“We should pop some champagne,” John suggested on their way out of the law building.

“That is a terrible idea, unless you’re paying for it. In which case, yes,” Alex responded, slipping his hand comfortably into John’s. It was still rather cold out. Though Alex knew in his heart that the snow would eventually melt, he couldn’t help but think that it didn’t melt soon enough. It was already March. Spring should be knocking on winter’s doorstep by now.

“Can I see your phone?” Alex asked.

“Why do you need it?” John asked as he pulled it out and handed it to his boyfriend.

“I need to text someone.”

“Who?” John asked, a second too late. He already saw the thread of that very number that threatened them before.

“Remember Aaron Burr?”

 

 **To:** **212-866-4242**

**4:45 PM**

**Dear Mr. Burr, we have a few questions regarding the...legal matters of your “king.” Assuming you are the lap dog of him, of course.**

**Meet us in central park by the Alice in Wonderland statue at 3 PM. Oh, and go ahead and bring “King” George, if you want. :)**

 

It was a clear mockery of the first message they received. It made John laugh.

 

The meeting itself commenced a little before 3 PM the next day. Burr was there first. It seems like he was always early to things.

“Gentlemen,” Burr greeted them, nodding at them both. He was alone. What a shame.

Alex simply nodded, while John let out a firm, “Burr.”

“Your text implied that there was some sort of legal issue to be discussed?” Burr began, getting down to business.

“There was nothing implied about it,” Alex said bluntly. “As far as I know, you’re a student of law, right?”

“That would be correct.”

“Tell me, Burr, have you yet heard, on your _advanced law course,_ of this nifty thing called New York’s ‘one-party consent’ law?”

Alex noticed Burr fiddled with his sleeves a bit before he answered. “I have _learned_ about it, yes.”

“Well, as far as we know, that little video that you and your _loyalist_ friends took of us is illegal. Now what, pray tell, could the punishment for even _knowing_ about a wiretapping and failing to report it? Prison time, of course.”

All the while, John kept his eyes trained on Burr’s face. He gave nothing away.

How irritating.

“You could imagine how bad this could end up for your precious ‘king,’ Mr. Burr.”

Burr looked that the two of them evenly. “Interesting. I’ll consider this,” he said, a fake smile on his face.

And just like that, he nodded at the two, and walked off.

 

At around 10 AM the next morning, there came a knock on the apartment door. Alex, who had just gotten home, answered it.

“Herc?” Was all Alex could manage to get out before the man in question let himself in.

“Is John here?” he asked.

In that moment, John poked his head out of his bedroom.

“Good. Sit down. I have something to tell you.”

John came over to sit next to Alex on the couch. “Is everything alright?” John asked.

“That depends on who you ask. Yesterday George called us all for a sudden meeting around 4 PM. The thing about George Frederick is that he tends to lose his temper. Easily. He even decked Burr yesterday for telling him about New York's law on recording.

“But that’s not the point. See, yesterday, he let something very _important_ slip out. He doesn’t have the funds to pay for legal issues.”

“You’re kidding,” Alex breathed out.

“I’m not. He doesn’t have the funds to buy votes this year, either.”

There was a pause. John was the first to speak. “So, Alex has a chance to win.”

“A fair chance.”

Alexander was all but speechless. John was about to comment on that, had his phone not ping with a new message from the number **212-866-4242.**

John must have read the message over several times.

  
King George wants to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you guys were wondering about my sources for this legal issue...consider this my works cited. (I actually first heard about NY's one-party consent law in qpq lol...)  
> [New York Recording Law](http://www.eppersonattorney.com/2015/06/is-it-legal-to-record-a-phone-conversation-in-new-york/) (In which I first found out about the legal issues)  
> [Recording Phone Calls and Conversations](http://www.dmlp.org/legal-guide/recording-phone-calls-and-conversations) (Info about New York's one-party consent law)  
> [Is It Legal to Record A Phone Conversation in New York?](http://www.dmlp.org/legal-guide/new-york-recording-law) (the same subject, continued; includes criminal offenses of wiretapping/eavesdropping)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this is filler...ding dong you are wrong...it is Much more than that, so bear with me.  
> Plus, due to popular demand, I will be writing that jamilton endgame fic, so look out for that after this fic is over.  
> Also, holy wow this is over a month overdue. I'm really sorry about that. School has been kicking my ass since the 10th. I promise I won't abandon this fic until it's over!  
> Anyhow. Enjoy.

_How did I get here?_ Aaron Burr idly pondered to himself.

He stood in the cold Central Park, a good half hour before he could even begin to hope for John and Alex to show up. Brushing away some of the settled snow from a nearby bench, he sat down, a scene from earlier playing on a loop in his head.

George had gripped him by the shoulders. “Do not give anything away. Remember, I trust you – only you – with this task. If it were someone else, they’d have chosen someone who doesn't know what they're doing.”

Aaron had nodded solemnly, like he always did before running errands for the man before him. “Of course,” he had said, looking right into his seemingly cold eyes.

Even as Aaron sat on the bench in the coolness of early spring, he could still feel the firm grip of George’s fingers curled around his biceps, holding him in place. He could see the seriousness of his gaze before him, focused only on Aaron and ignoring all else that was happening in the world. A shiver went up Aaron’s spine. He blamed it on the cold. He didn’t have a word for how George made him feel.

In any case, Aaron could see the two men approaching the statue just before his feet began to go numb. He stood to greet them.

“Gentlemen,” he spoke, nodding at each of them.

John let out a firm, “Burr.” Alex simply nodded back. Aaron noted that they were holding hands this time around. They stood closer to each other. There was a general...togetherness about the pair that simply wasn’t there when they last met. _Almost as if their hearts beat together,_ Aaron couldn't help but think.

Aaron almost brought up the fact that Alex had been hanging around a certain Mr. Jefferson as of late. That, and the fact that they seemed...close, to say in the least. However, he refrained. Those were not his orders. He was only to see what they wanted, and report back to George. Scout and report.

So, he got right down to business. “Your _text,_ ” – Aaron wanted to call it rude, or something of that nature, – “implied that there was some sort of legal issue to be discussed?”

“There was nothing implied about it,” came from Alexander, ever the smartass. “As far as I know, you’re a student of law, right?”

“That would be correct.” Aaron knew where this was going. It was the very thing that he tried to tell George back in December, when he was given the order to wiretap all private rooms. What George was trying to do was very much illegal, but he would have none of it. And now it was coming back to haunt them. He unconsciously fiddled with the sleeves of his coat. It was a nervous habit that Aaron ceased a bit too late, for Alex had already noticed.

“Tell me, Burr, have you yet heard, on your advanced law course, of this nifty thing called New York’s ‘one-party consent’ law?”

_This nifty thing,_ Burr mocked in his head. “I have _learned_ about it, yes.”

“Well, as far as we know, that little video that you and your _loyalist_ friends took of us is illegal." Aaron tuned out the latter part of that sentence.  _Prison time,_ yes, he knew it all too well.

And he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to punch that patronizing tone and the slight upturn of Alexander’s lips right off his face. Yet still, he forced himself to keep a level head and his expression constant.

“You could imagine how bad this could end up for your precious ‘king,’ Mr. Burr.”

_He’s right,_ Aaron thought, looking at both John and Alex evenly. _I have thought about it. And the outcomes are less than good._

But, true to his word, he concluded with, “Interesting. I’ll consider this.” He forced a pleasant smile onto his face, walking off a moment later.

 

The next thing Aaron knew, there was a sudden meeting called right after he texted George with the fact that he had news.

He walked into the penthouse of George Frederick, like he would any other day when he had news to share with him, only to find several eyes turn to look at him as he entered the dining room, where meetings are usually held.

_Oh no._

“Ah, Mr. Burr! I’m glad to see you could join us! Come, sit. We were just awaiting your arrival,” came from the head of the U-shape of chairs. From George.

Aaron made his way to his usual seat, to the right of George. The meeting room itself, although held inside a dining room, contained no table, save for a coffee table sat in the corner of the room that did nothing but collect dust over the months. On occasion, a few long wooden tables were brought out. For example, if the meeting was long-winded, or notes needed to be taken, or perhaps coffee was available for all members to drink at their leisure, and needed a place to put both notes and their coffee, someone (Aaron) brought those tables out.

But today’s meeting required no such tables. It seemed to be only an update meeting. Aaron traced the U-shape of the plush chairs (which, he might add, were replaced every year, save for this year). He saw the familiar faces of the people he had worked with. George’s chair was the tallest, elevated by a step put in place before the large window on the east side of the building. A Hercules Mulligan sat to the left of George, directly across from Aaron. The two nodded at each other. The man was a mystery. Aaron knew nearly nothing of him, save for his name and the fact that he was useful in some way to this team. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so _close_ to George.

“Mr. Burr has some _news_ to share with us.”

Aaron blanched. “News, sir?”

“Your text? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it already.”

He lowered his voice just enough so that the entire room wouldn't hear. “I haven’t, however, I don't think–”

“Nonsense. Stand up and speak,” George interrupted, giving Aaron a commanding look at his moment of hesitation.

And so he stood, surveying the room once more. He took a deep breath, and seemed although he was going to give the news, save for the fact that he lowered his voice once again and turned towards George to say, “Sir, I really think this information is better shared privately–”

“ _Speak,_ Aaron!” he snapped.

Again, Aaron took a deep breath. This would not end well, this much he knew as he spoke the words, loud and clear, “The tape that we have of Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens saying that they are not dating is illegal, thanks to New York’s ‘one party’ consent law. Now, in the meeting that I just arrived from, they threatened to take legal action.”

There was a tense moment of silence.

“Oh, did they, now?” came from George in a sarcastically pleasant tone. “I suppose we should just delete the tape, is that it? Would that solve our little _problem_ here, Mr. Burr?”

Aaron hesitated. How should he approach this? “It might, however–”

“ _However,_ would that _really_ solve the problem? I mean, if you really start to think about it, that tape _was_ the only way to solve our little ‘problem’ at the beginning of the year, wasn’t it, _Mr. Burr_?”

George was mocking him. Aaron said nothing.

“But, no!” George continued his verbal assault. Aaron idly wondered if this was meant to be some show of power. “You had to go and let the enemy keep in close contact with the law, is that it?”

“Hold on, George, I had nothing to do with that!” Aaron defended, a phrase that fell on deaf ears.

“Do you think I can afford this? Am I some kind of _bank_ ?! My mum and dad _cut me off,_ Burr!”

The room went deathly silent. Aaron saw George’s lower lip quiver and his nostrils flare. He reached out to console him, to do _something_ as his right hand man, but all he was met with was a strike to the face. Aaron distantly heard George scream at everyone to get out.

It was strange how familiar it felt to him. It was reminiscent of an event that occurred just three months prior: the Christmas party.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Frederick,” Aaron had said, calling the “king” to attention.

“Call me George,” he had insisted, a warm smile on his face.

Aaron took pause before responding. Was it professional? Probably not. Then again, this event wasn't meant to be professional. Everyone was give a break for the day, or so word went round.

“George,” Aaron echoed. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

A few moments later, the two were in a rather secluded spot of the room, speaking in low voices to one another.

“My point is,” Aaron concluded, “that there’s something not right about those two being ‘out’ as a ‘couple’ when it’s so convenient. Whatever they are, they have Elizabeth Schuyler convinced. It’s only a matter of time before this information spreads…” he trailed off.

“Those two,” of course, concerned Alex and John, who were standing just across the room. Aaron wondered idly to himself why the two were invited anyways. George was a man of true regality. He wouldn’t bother associating himself with Alexander (and, subsequently, John) if it weren’t worth his while. Well, in any case, George took the moment to spare a glance, causing Aaron to follow suit. They simultaneously turned away a moment later.

“And you said they’ve acted nothing like a couple in public for the past ten months when there was no need to hide it?” George clarified, biting his bottom lip without even realizing it. Aaron couldn’t help but look.

“As far as I know. Laurens is out to his father. As for Hamilton, I couldn’t find anything on his parents. His tuition is covered through a full scholarship, but he has a job to pay the rent of a ‘two bedroom’ apartment he’s sharing with Laurens,” he couldn’t help but say proudly. He did his research. (Which mostly consisted of exhausting the “couple’s” Facebook pages down to the very first post and asking around here and there, but the latter seemed far less effective.)

George seemed contemplative for a moment. “Interesting. I trust you’ll look into it?” he asked, sending a wink towards Aaron. “I suggest you ask Mr. Mulligan for help.”

Apparently, “look into it” meant “set up cameras with audio in all accessible rooms and set up a mistletoe directly above the doorway leading to the hall with the guest rooms and hope that the liquor takes over and makes John and Alexander ‘get a room’” in the most illegal way possible.

And get a room they did.

By the end of the night, after all the guests had left and Aaron was prepared to say his goodbyes to everyone, he was called back into the dining room. With a curious but calculating eye, he walked in to see a projector set up and pointed at the wall, apparently hooked up to Mulligan’s laptop. On the screen was one of the guest rooms that Aaron was privy to on the occasions that he would spend the night. Immediately, he looked to George sharply. He didn't expect the plan to work so smoothly.

George watched as Aaron advanced on him, swiftly pulling him aside to say: “George, you need to delete that footage right now.”

“Hm?” George replied, staring evenly down at Aaron. “Nonsense. We need to watch it.”

“It's illegal,” he deadpanned.

“Mm, so are Hillary Clinton’s emails, but that's not a federal investigation, now is it?” George looked to the front of the room, where Mulligan was standing before the coffee table in the corner of the room, waiting for the signal to start the video. George gave him a curt nod.

Aaron stood back in defeat, trying his best not to huff out of frustration. Maybe if he turned his back, he could have plausible deniability? If he left the room, right then and there?

No, that wouldn't work. He already knew of what had occurred. He could report it. He swore he would.

He would.

At first, the noise of a party outside. Then the pitter patter of two sets of footsteps coming in rapid succession to the door. Two muffled voices, and then the door swinging open, revealing the couple of the night. Hamilton spoke first, as though a continuation of a previous statement no one else knew of.

_“Where did you learn how to kiss so well?”_

Aaron glanced towards George, gauging his reaction. His expression was unreadable.

_“I mean, I know this is just an act and all, but_ damn _, you can kiss.”_

The room went deathly silent, save for the audio of the video. George, who was crossing his arms, had a white knuckled grip on his forearms. Aaron warily watched his progression of emotion. Towards the end of the video, Alexander admitted it again. _Aww, you don’t want to kiss me? I know that we’re not really dating and all, but I’m hurt, John. Truly._

“Stop the video,” George muttered outwardly.

Mulligan had the misfortune of saying, “What?”

“ _Stop the video!_ ” George all but shouted, relinquishing his hold on his own arms. The man scrambled to do as he was told.

“Not dating! Haven't you heard? They're _not dating!_ I swear on the Queen–,” George began shouting nonsense, making his way across the room to where Mulligan stood with his laptop. Aaron quickly followed him, ready to stop him should his temper extend towards the idea of inflicting harm upon others. His fears were somehow alleviated when he saw George grab a mug full of coffee and chuck it at the wall. The shards of porcelain flew in every direction, coffee staining the immaculate white wall.

Aaron reached out to George, thinking that this was too much. He said, “George, for god’s sake, calm down!–”

“ _Don't touch me!_ ” George all but shrieked as he turned around with a solid punch to Aaron's jaw. “Clear the room!”

Aaron fell backwards from the blow, clutching his abused face. He was ready to scramble away, to leave the penthouse, just as everyone else did, but the king barked out a command:

“Not you, Burr!”

Aaron stopped in his tracks, watching in despair as everyone else gathered their things and fled the scene as quickly as they could.

“This isn't _fair!”_ George yelled shrilly, kicking over the coffee table in rage. “What _right_ do they have to live fakely when _I’m_ the one punished for it?!”

Aaron watched the king throw his fit from his position on the floor. He looked like a spoiled child, Aaron noted, throwing a fit because he didn’t get to go to Disneyland. Except this wasn’t Disneyland. There was a reason why George reacted so strongly to these tapes. If it were anything else, perhaps he would have laughed.

Suddenly, George advanced towards Aaron.

“Oh, _get up!_ ” He roughly pulled Aaron to his feet. George’s hands were balls in Aaron’s shirt as he spoke, “You don't _get it,_ do you?”

Aaron hesitantly met the gaze of the man _towering_ over him. There were tears welling up in his eyes.

“Threaten them with this tape! Threaten to destroy them!” At that point, George’s knees buckled out from under him, forcing him to slide down Aaron’ torso, and onto the ground, loosely holding onto the bottom of his shirt; it was almost like he had lost all the will that drove him up to that point, as though there was no point in continuing his fit, for nothing would come of it. As if the little “king” were trying to hold onto any shred of gentility that remained, he weakly commanded, perhaps for the last time, “Do whatever it takes,” with the hiccup of a sob that tugged on Aaron’s heartstrings.

Indeed, although hesitant, he leaned down to console what might be his friend, shushing his broken apologies and claims that none of this would be happening if he could only learn to love a woman -- assuring him that the latter part was not true. It didn’t matter that Aaron’s shirt was ruined by the pent-up emotion of a rich child with poor parents. A few stains on cloth could be washed out easily, but the stains of emotional turmoil could not.

With this new piece of information came the sudden acute awareness that this was a move to cripple the whole basis of Hamilton’s candidacy.

_And so he plays his part._

 

* * *

 

Aaron could have gone to the authorities, reported the use of unlawful recording of unconsenting parties in a private place. He could have. He _should_ have. Yet, why did he not? Why get mixed up in this whole mess of an affair?

Aaron wondered, idly, as he stood clutching his cheek much in the same fashion that he did three months prior, if that would have made any difference. If his life would be simpler if he could only just report to the law.

But, he supposed, maybe not.

“ _Burr!_ ”

Aaron was met with the sight of George glaring at him.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?! The enemy is out there conspiring against us, and here _you_ are, letting them get away with it! Good God, I have had enough of this! They always seems to know about our plans before _we_ do, and--” He stopped short.

Aaron’s breath caught in his throat. He braced himself.

“There’s a traitor in our midst,” he spoke curtly after a tense minute of silence. He opened his mouth as though to say something more, but closed it abruptly. Then, he said, “Schedule a meeting. Tomorrow morning. 8 AM.”

Aaron nodded and scurried off to find his phone before receiving any more verbal harassment. His arm was caught just as he was about to pass George.

“Notify everyone,” George ordered, towering intimidatingly over Aaron. “Except,” he began again, gripping Aaron’s arm with a bit more strength, “Mister Hercules Mulligan.”

 

The meeting commenced the next morning with many a bleary eyed staff member, tables pulled out and set up, coffee for each person inside, and a notepad in each place. By the time two hours had passed, the crew had a solid plan in place to ensure the victory of their “King.” Some of their methods might have been deemed “unethical” by many standards, but no less effective. Burr sent the notification of meeting to Laurens around 10 AM, and the meeting was adjourned.

Without George’s left-hand man present, some of their methods would not take place. But that was alright. This “experiment” of sorts would reveal the true loyalists and weed out the moles. And without the mole, there would be no information.

It was only a matter of time before the spy in New York would be considered useless.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a moment. enjoy

The day to meet with the “King” came all too soon. Quite literally.

The text called for them to meet in the Shakespeare Garden in Central Park at 9 AM the next Monday, which only gave them two and a half days to prepare. A meeting such as this was not to be botched. It must be handled carefully – deliberately – to minimize all error and carry out an eventual victory.

And yet, something else was amiss.

 

The night he received the message to meet, John alerted both Hercules and Alexander of it almost immediately. John, with Alex too busy already concocting up a scheme, took note of Herc’s strange expression. He looked almost taken aback, but that could also be mistaken for something akin to indigestion. He tried not to stare as his friend slowly came over to sit down next to him.

 _Nothing, it’s nothing,_ John tried unsuccessfully to convince himself. Maybe Hercules was having a bad morning. But even if that were the case, he _seemed_ happy enough, had he not? John had difficulty remembering. It could be entirely possible that _nothing_ was wrong, and he was merely imagining things.

“–and if he wants to _talk_ about specifics, then we should at least be prepared, right?” Alex asked rhetorically, taking a seat on the armrest of the sofa. His mouth had been running off the moment he set his eyes on the text, prone to bouts of silence every so often. “Herc, did the ‘King’,” – Alex said the word mockingly, – “and his committee mention anything about any potential talking points? Any threats? Talking his way out of this?”

It took Hercules a moment to respond. He now seemed deep in thought, as though exploring the possibility of an event. When he did respond, it was with a most eloquent, “Huh?”

“Talking points,” Alex repeated, suppressing his excitement. John recognized it immediately. “Have any?”

Slowly, silently, Hercules shook his head.

Alex deflated. “I guess they’re winging it, then.”

Herc’s eyes flickered upwards, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out; as though he were rethinking whatever it was he was going to say, he shut it immediately after. John frowned.

“Herc,” John began, calling the man to attention. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head again, yet more deliberately this time. “They don’t just _wing_ things. That’s not their style. That’s not _his_ style.”

This time, it was Alex’s turn to frown. He crossed his arms from where he was and adjusted himself. “What do you mean?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

Herc once again opened his mouth to respond, but shook his head. He gestured vaguely. “I’m sorry,” He looked from John to Alex, and then back again. He shrugged. “I can’t help you.”

 

The thing about blunders like these, Alex figured, was that one could work through them. It was not inconceivable that “winging it for the most part, but still having a vague idea of things” would bring their ultimate downfall. But even so, it might, – in some improbable way in which sharp wits and a quick manner of thought prevail over a well-thought out, peer reviewed argument, – it _might_ all work out in their favor.

In short, they had no plan.

With this in mind, Alex and John set out to meet the “King” in the cold slush of the morning. Down the winding path leading seemingly nowhere, in such a secluded area that the leftover slush of snow had yet to be dirtied, but would wet any ignorant passerby’s feet all the same. Alex reminded himself that spring was coming in a matter of weeks.

That did not prevent him from frowning all the same. He felt John gently squeeze his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Alex looked up at John. He shook his head and let his gaze fall. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing. I just don’t know what to expect.”

There was a moment of silence.

“ _So_?”

Alex looked back up at John in slight shock. The answer was so sudden and entirely unlike the John Alex knew that he jerked backwards, though he knew it held no malice.

“What?” Alex managed to say.

“So what?” John stopped walking, causing Alex to follow suit. “You didn’t know what to expect when we got that first text from Burr. Heck, you didn’t know what to expect when you decided to fake date me. You still pulled through, didn’t you?”

“That was different.”

“You don’t know who you’re personally dealing with,” John said, and at Alex’s nod, he continued. “Did you know my dad personally before you met him? Did you know how he’d treat you? Sure you might have had an inkling by looking at his political choices, but that’s all they were – political. You didn’t _exactly_ know who you were dealing with until you met him yourself. And yeah, I may have told you about him beforehand, but that’s what _I_ thought. You didn’t really know who you were dealing with. Why is this time any different?”

Alex took pause before replying, considering John’s rhetoric. Finally, he said, “You’re right.” He shook his head and repeated, “You’re right, this isn’t any different.” Alex paused, apparently thinking again. He looked up at John with a new-found confidence and certainty.

“Thank you.”

Alex was smiling. John couldn’t help but follow suit.

“This’ll work,” John said. Alex pulled his hand and began to walk forth towards the certain uncertainty that was the meeting.

“You bet your ass it will.”

 

As they approached the meeting place, Alex couldn’t help but notice the already blossoming olive tree, the white bloom of which hung directly over the general meeting place, stopping right before the two men already there. The olive flowers, in all their budding glory, – seemingly defying the laws of nature by their mere existence among the snow, – gave him a sense of hope. Burr and the other man – presumably the “king” himself – stood unusually close, and Alex wondered for a moment if they were dating or not.

“...can’t keep him away from all the meetings. He’ll catch on,” Alex heard Burr murmur to the man beside him as soon as they were within earshot. He locked eyes with Alex and spoke no more. Alex instinctively exchanged a look with John.

Burr was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” he began with, as always. “This is–”

“George William Frederick,” the man beside him – George – interrupted smoothly. He held his hand out to Alexander, and added, “The Third.”

The first thing that Alex noticed about George was his height. Not just that, but the fact that he was slightly _taller_ than John, and that he had a nice smile and pretty blue eyes and–that was besides the point.

But, before Alex could even begin to respond, or even let go of his hand, George exclaimed, “Oh! You must be Alexander!” He tightened his grip on Alex’s hand just the slightest bit, allowing his left hand to grip Alex’s bicep as he leaned forward and all but purred out, “It is _very_ nice to meet you.”

There seemed to be a moment of silence in which no one knew what to say. John watched as George stepped back, his fingers leaving a lingering touch on Alex’s jacket. He looked first to Alex, who had been ceaselessly looking at the elusive man with the blue eyes since their arrival; he then glanced at the light man himself, who had – whether deliberately or unknowingly – ignored John’s existence altogether. It was as though he was entirely taken by Alexander after just a moment’s glance — and Alexander was enjoying the attention. He felt the flames of jealousy spark at the pit of his stomach.

The silence, lasting for no more than a few seconds, was broken suddenly by John, sticking his hand between the two as though to shake George’s hand; he said, “John Laurens.” And, in the same manner that George had done just a moment before, he added, “The First.”

George slowly looked from Alexander to John. A smirk crept onto his lips, and he took John’s hand. Behind George, he noted, Burr stood, almost seething.

“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” He stated more than asked, briefly shaking John's hand. “The son of the senator of South Carolina, yes?”

John let his hand fall to his side. His eyes again flickered to Burr for a moment. It was as though he was trying to keep his composure, but his almost-glare at Alexander gave him away. It was an interesting sight. If John didn’t know any better, he would say that Burr was jealous. Aaron Burr, _jealous_? That was interesting indeed. John kept this knowledge close to his chest.

“Yeah,” John replied. “And you’re the grandson of the Duke of Wellington.”

A sharp, vague expression crossed George’s face in that instant. Burr glanced warily to the tall, elusive man next to him. His blue eyes seemed even more piercing in that one, singular moment; so much so that when that expression, whatever it was, melted into a kind and disarming countenance, John thought that he had imagined it entirely. George did not respond immediately -- not to John. Instead, he turned to Alex.

“Alexander, dear, charming Alexander, you simply _must_ explain to me why you continue to ‘date’ him. I don’t understand it. You could be with someone who actually loves you.” He took pause, slowly raking his eyes along the length of Alex’s body. “Someone like _Thomas_.”

Alex tensed up.

“It’s none of your _goddamn_ business,” John snapped.

“Oh, do pardon me.” George looked amusedly to Aaron. “It seems I’ve struck a nerve.”

“You have _no right--_ ”

“No right to _what,_ Mr. Laurens?” He interjected sharply. “To say something that is the truth and nothing but? My sincerest apologies if the truth _offends_ you, _Mr. Laurens,_ but it is my firm belief that the _truth_ holds some sort of integrity.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “My God, you two aren’t even dating.”

“Alex and I _are_ dating, actually.”

“Good God, you’re _still_ saying that? You’re _not_ dating! It’s some sick fantasy you two have to _parade around_ with your self-righteousness, acting progressive with your _fake boyfriend,_ when _really--”_

“ _We’re not the ones buying up student elections!_ ”

Alex spoke so suddenly and without warning that both parties fell into silent shock, though for different reasons. He continued.

“You talk about integrity and _the truth_ when the only reason you’ve been president of the school for so long is because of all the _fraud_ you’ve committed! Where is the _integrity_ in that?”

George quickly grew pale, eyes wide and unblinking. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down, yet he said nothing.

“You have no proof,” Burr, apparently taking control, said after some time.

“Your reaction is all the proof we need.”

 

* * *

 

It was a chilly day, as they always seem to be in early March, but the weather did nothing to stop the hustle and bustle of New York City.

It was about 10 AM when a certain Marquis found himself leaving a busy Starbucks and stepping onto an even busier street. It reminded him of Paris in the summer, but without the scent of _boulangerie pâtisseries_ lining the streets.

The last time that Gilbert was in France was last July for Bastille Day. The fireworks in the streets, the sun warming the tops of buildings with his pleasant rays. He had gone down to Marseilles for the first time with…

Who had he spent it with again?

 _Ah,_ that was right. He had spent it with a friend who was there by coincidence of the occasion: Thomas. They ran into each other somewhere in Paris -- Gilbert couldn’t remember where, though they both had come to the city alone -- and decided to take the TGV to Marseilles. They rented a hotel room by the Mediterranean.

He hadn’t had the chance to properly speak to Thomas since then. He wondered what his dear friend was up to these days. He knew that Thomas was close to Alex presently (though they hated each other before), which meant that he could likely go to Alex to get to Thomas. Though that seemed tedious.

As Gilbert pondered this, he paid little attention to where he was going, and inadvertently took a turn onto the street Alex’s shared apartment was on. It wasn’t until he stood directly in front of the apartment building that he realized he was going through with the tedious option.

“ _Gilbert_?” he heard to his right.

It was Alex, holding hands with John.

“Alex! Just the man I was looking for,” he replied.

The duo approached, greeting him in the style of the Europeans.

“How’ve you been?”

“I have been well. Busy, as we all are, but well nonetheless. How are you?”

“Same as always,” Alex began, shrugging. Before he could elaborate, and God knows he was going to, John smoothly cut in.

“Never sleeping. A workaholic before he even has a job he wants. By the way, Alex, how many majors do you have this semester?” John asked, shit-faced grin on his face.

Alex pushed his boyfriend playfully. “I can’t believe this.” He turned to Gilbert. “He bullies me so much. I don’t deserve this?”

They laughed.

“Do you want to come inside, Gilbert?” Alex offered once the chuckles had subsided. “As much as I love standing outside in this cold, dirty slush, I don’t.”

Gilbert shook his head. “I have a meeting to go to. I just need to ask one thing.”

Alex gestured vaguely. “Ask away.”

“Do you know what Thomas is up to?”

There was a sudden, tense moment of silence. Gilbert watched as John looked to Alex for his reaction, and Alex seemed to be at loss for words momentarily. It was eerie, to see him in such a state. Finally, he spoke.

“How would I know? He’s probably balancing school and homework with socializing and wine tasting. He probably prioritizes the _latter,_ too.”

Gilbert blinked. That was not the response he was expecting. Then again, when did Alex ever have anything nice to say about Thomas Jefferson? Still, he laughed, hoping to ease the tension.

“You’re probably right,” he said. There was an awkward moment of silence. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Anyhow, I should get going. Let’s dine together sometime. Tell Hercules that he’s invited.”

“We will,” came from John. Alex was...oddly silent. He had a tight smile on his face. “Take care.”

Was it perhaps something that he said?

As Gilbert retreated from the apartment building, he couldn’t help but ponder this question. He thought that Alex and Thomas had formed some sort of a bond over literature -- or at least, that was what John had told him when he was sulking because Alex cancelled their lunch plans. They must have at least had a mutual respect for each other, right? What happened in the short time between then and now? Alex’s response was unnerving. Something had happened between them, and Alex held Thomas with disdain once again. Gilbert knew that Thomas never really _hated_ Alex. He merely found it amusing to oppose him. The whole situation did not bode well with Gilbert.

That was how he found himself en route to the apartment of his friend, hoping that all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A boulangerie pâtisserie is actually two stores combined into one. A boulangerie is like a bakery that just sells bread, while a pâtisserie sells pastries. My French teacher tells me that it was impractical to just sell Bread, so boulangerie pâtisseries were born. (but, I have no way of verifying this 100%, as I've never been to France and google is extremely unhelpful at times, so please correct me if I'm wrong.)  
> The TGV is the fast train in France (it stands for Train à Grande Vitesse which literally means "train at really fast speeds"). I looked it up, and you can get from Paris to Marseilles in three hours.


End file.
